


Say You'll Remember

by whisperdlullaby



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Complete, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 93,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>au.</i> louis and harry are best mates that are only half aware that they're also soulmates. alternatively, louis goes to university and harry travels the world, and they always manage to find their way back to each other.</p><p>takes place over nine years, in which they love and hurt, make mistakes and learn, and above all, grow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys, this is my first fic in the one direction fandom which is nerve-wracking but kind of cool. i'm also not british in any form, and despite spending a week in london, watching skins and reading fic, i'm not that well educated. i tried to get some facts straight regarding schooling and tried to through in some british terms, but if something seems really off, please let me know! i'm up for correction :) 
> 
> Some comparisons can be drawn to "One Day" by David Nicholls. It was almost completely by mistake so I wouldn't go so far to say it's based off of it, but there's enough similiarities that it's worth giving him credit where it's due!
> 
> title taken from blue jeans by lana del rey. pics found in banner are from various places throughout tumblr, and manips were originally found on a post by somediamonds. and lots of love to [kara](decisionsandrevisionsfic.tumblr.com) and [tara](boyfriendsandbandshirts.tumblr.com) for proofing. xx
> 
> Note: there is sensitive subject matter in this fic. There will be more specific warnings in the chapters they appear in, but if you want an idea beforehand, you can read the A/N's at the end of chapter 6 and 8.

__

_ i. louis_

Louis’ eighteen and drunk the first time Harry kisses him.

They’re at a playground, squeezed inside a plastic tube, half a bottle of wine sitting precariously between their laps. It’s the early hours of 2011, and Louis can taste fireworks on his tongue. He knows it’s cold outside, can hear the wind whistling over the buzzing in his ears, can see Harry’s breath dance across his lips. Louis can’t feel it though. Between the alcohol and Harry - mainly Harry - he feels warm, like his belly is a heater, warming him from the inside out, skin prickling with electricity. 

Louis’ thought about this before; has since he was sixteen and woke up to Harry with a sheet wrapped around his bare torso, sweatpants low on his hipbones. Maybe it was the early sun trickling in through the blinds, highlighting Harry’s complexion just right, but Louis looked at his wild curls and eyelashes curved against his cheeks, and he knew he had never, and would never, see anyone more beautiful. That was the morning Louis realized not only that he was gay, but that he was also in love with his best friend. He didn’t cope well, and if he were being honest, he still doesn’t. He’s become good at compartmentalizing though - and lying, and pretending, and telling himself it can not and will not ever be.

Except Louis never factored in this. Never factored in too much alcohol, and Harry’s mouth, and Harry’s hands, his hips, neck, and tongue. The first few minutes of New Year’s Louis thinks, feels, tastes and breathes Harry, and he allows it.

Louis hadn’t even wanted to leave the party. But, Harry had pleaded, flashed him a stolen wine bottle tucked under his coat, and Louis couldn’t say no. He can never say no to Harry, and that’s the problem. Louis is supposed to be strong, but Harry is his kryptonite. Sometimes that scares him so much that he wants to run away, so fucking far away, and he has a few times, but he can never get far. That’s the other problem. The last thing Louis ever wanted to do was rely on someone to breathe, and without meaning to that’s exactly what he’s done with Harry.

They’re so close, Harry’s chest against his, knees dug into his hips, tongue in his mouth. Louis would never say he feels fireworks, or that Harry’s fingers are coals on his neck. Louis would never admit that all he wants to do is bring him home, hide under his warm blanket, and kiss him until their mouths are raw, until they swear their breaths are one.

“Lou,” Harry murmurs into his mouth, and Louis kisses the words away.

Louis doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing, whether it’s been minutes or an hour, but he’s breathing heavier than he ever has in a football match. Louis loses all function to his brain when Harry shifts, bottom dragging over his crotch, but it's only for a moment before awareness comes screaming out the other side. Control is hanging by a thread, and if he were to lose it all to Harry, he would never get it back. 

Harry doesn’t make it any easier, mouth blindly following every time Louis tries to break away. Louis has to reach for his jaw, saying his name twice before Harry’s eyes draw open, as if awakening from a dream. For a moment Louis feels like they are, reality hitting as harsh as the wind outside.

“Hey,” Louis says, softly. 

Harry blinks, once, twice, eyes dark and hooded, filled with something Louis’ never seen before. Love and lust and fear have become so intertwined that Louis’ not sure which one it is that pools in his chest. “Hi.”

Louis leans forward, and brushes a kiss above his eyebrow, allowing it to linger no more than a second. “Happy New Year, Haz.”

He catches the look of disappointment that flashes across Harry’s face, too drunk to mask it, but then he’s nodding, smiling crookedly. “Happy New Year’s, Boo.”

Louis lets him hold his hand all the way back to the party, body warm and solid against his side.

*

Louis wakes up feeling fine, but when he gets a text from Harry asking how he is, he lies and says he’s thrown up twice.

 _Promise we won’t be awkward about this?_   Harry asks.

_About what?_

_Lou, don’t._

_Nonsense, it made us better friends._

_Lou, you PROMISE you won’t be awkward about this?_

Louis gets up, goes to the washroom, has a shower, makes a cup of tea and a sandwich before replying back with a simple, _promise._ Louis’ definitely going to be awkward.

Fortunately for him it’s still winter break, meaning he doesn’t have to see Harry - or anyone - for four whole days. He decides his couch will be a good refuge.

The next day, while eating a bowl of ice-cream and watching _X-Factor_ with his sisters, he receives another text from Harry asking if he wants to get Nando’s. Louis says he has a late family Christmas dinner. It’s clearly a lie, just like Harry knows it’s a lie because he doesn’t text back at all. By the third day, when Louis rejects his invitation to come over with an excuse of having to babysit the girls, his fear is replaced by guilt.

This time, Harry replies, _Lou, you promised._

_It’s not awkward._

Harry doesn't answer, and come the fourth day he doesn't try at all. 

Back at school it _is_ awkward, up until lunch period when Louis steals a carrot off Harry’s tray, and tells the story of how he went into the basement to find Daisy had wrapped Pheobe as a present, complete with a bow on top. Harry laughs like it hurts, even though it's his second time hearing it.

New Year’s is not brought up again.

*

Louis is only just retreating from his team-mates celebratory post-game hug, when a pair of arms come flying around his neck, hot mouth hovering over his ear. “My hero!” the voice yells, causing temporary deafness.

Louis turns to punch Harry in the arm, but he smiles all the same. “When I’m fifty and needing a hearing aid, I’m making you pay for it.”

Harry smirks, sheepish, and says, “Did you see my sign?”

“How could I not?

In the three years they have been friends, Harry has missed exactly one of his football matches due to bronchitis (yet, according to Anne, she practically had to tie him down to stop him from going anyway). This also means, that in the three years worth of matches, Harry has made an obnoxious sign for every single one. They’ve ranged from sloppy, last minute doodles over graph paper, to extravagant cut-outs, nearly blinding with neon colours and an excessive amount of glitter.  It was a little embarrassing at first, mostly because Louis was only in year ten and spent the majority of the time on the bench. Though, over time Louis has grown to love them, looking forward to seeing what masterpiece Harry will show up with. Of course, he would never tell Harry this. Instead, he moans and groans and rolls his eyes, knowing Harry sees straight through it.

Tonight his sign falls more on the extravagant end, neon pink with _#17 is my hero_ written in glittering gold letters. He can still see it flashing around at the top of the bleachers, where Niall is holding it, Liam and Zayn at his side. “And I see you managed to drag the lads out tonight.”

“I bribed them with pizza,” he says, admittedly, making Louis chuckle. “You want to go out for celebratory milkshakes? My treat.”

Louis’ team-mates are heading to the pub, where girls will undoubtedly show up. It always ends the same way; with a little too much beer, catcalls, and snogging a girl just to appease any suspicions. Somehow he has managed to escape most gay scrutiny, but still he worries. “Yeah, always,” he says, “just let me shower first, and hope the lads don’t notice.”

“Okay,” he sighs, as if it’s an inconvenience, “I guess we’ll wait.”

“Hey, Tommo, coach wants to talk to us in the locker room.”

“Yeah, sure, I’m coming,” he says, nodding towards Chris Ryan, a year eleven.

Chris continues off the field, but not before exchanging glances with Harry. It’s short, but something in it feels heavy, even for Louis, but Chris is gone before he can place it.

Harry laughs softly under his breath, arms wrapped around himself. “God, if it weren’t for you, I think I would’ve been beaten up a long time ago.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

Harry shrugs, seemingly unconvinced, but it’s barely a moment before he’s smiling brightly. “Okay, go on. Hurry up. I want a caramel milkshake.”  

Louis obliges, thinking over Harry’s words as he cleans up. Louis has gotten his fair share of teasing over Harry’s posters, but that’s all it was; teasing. At least, that’s how Louis’ seen it, and he can be fairly paranoid when it comes to his perceived sexuality. Louis doesn’t think he’s too overly entitled, but most of the time he feels like questions aren’t asked just because it’s him, because he’s _Louis Tomlinson, team captain_. Yet he’s doubtful to think that, that alone holds the power to keep Harry from getting picked on if they really wanted to. Everyone loves Harry, and they would even if Louis wasn’t there. How could they not?

Instead of returning to Liam’s car, Harry hovers next to the passenger side of Louis’, as if in habit. No one says anything as they all climb into respective cars, headed towards _ShakeAway_.

Harry grabs for Louis' iPod as soon as they're seated. Louis expects him to go through the playlist made up of all his strange, hipster music. He had gotten sick of Harry always  complaining about his 'soulless' pop music, so he had stolen a few of Harry's mix CD's to import onto his own iPod, for when Harry was around and tuning him out only went so far. Louis' surprised when he lands on the _Spice Girls_ instead, blasting it loud enough that Louis' car is vibrating, Harry singing along almost as loudly. At first, Louis just laughs and rolls his eyes, but then _Wannabe_ comes on and he can't help but join in, the two of them giggling over the console. 

They find a booth near the back of the restaurant, the five of them squeezing close. While Zayn and Louis go way back, they’ve all become a sort of unit over the years, a family. Something in Louis’ chest grows cold thinking of how he’s expected to leave them in a few short months.  

Louis watches Harry at first, always intrigued by the way something in him shifts when put into groups, even as close as they all are. When it’s the two of them, Harry is usually nothing less than a talkative ball of energy. In a group, however, he’s content to sit back and observe, offering comments and questions that hold weight. Most of the time Louis feels like he’s speaking for the both of them, while Harry hums and nods next to him. Tonight though, Louis opts to stay quietly on the sidelines with Harry, using his milkshake as a distraction. It’s not until Liam brings up Uni, that all eyes are on him; Harry’s the heaviest of them all.

Louis nearly has to shift his entire body to avoid Harry's heavy gaze. It’s slightly intimidating, the way he’s staring at Louis as if daring him to say something he won’t like. There’s not much Louis can say on this subject that he will, besides that he's staying in Doncaster, which is why Louis’ managed to avoid the topic altogether for three whole months.

“Yeah, I’ve applied to a few schools,” Louis says. “I haven’t heard anything back though.”

“Which schools?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Louis says, mumbled into his milkshake. “Sheffield, Manchester, Edinburgh, Oxford.”

“Wicked, mate,” Zayn says, and all of them offer enthusiastic nods, all except for Harry. Louis pretends not to notice. “I’m sure you’ll get into all. Where do you want to go the most?”

“Um.” Louis sneaks a glance at Harry, torn on whether it’s better to be honest or to keep off Harry’s bad side. “Well, Oxford I guess,” he says. “But, I highly doubt I’ll get in.”

“Shut up, mate,” Zayn says. “You’re like, the smartest person I know.”

Louis snorts. “Hardly.” He gets good grades - excellent, at times - but he works his arse off for them. A-levels are three months away, and he’s already given himself numerous anxiety attacks. He goes through this every year, even before upper sixth, when A-levels and Uni were a thing of the future. Every exam, every test, he nearly loses his mind with stress and serious lack of sleep only to do well every time.

“You’re going to be a real life doctor,” Liam says between sips of his chocolate shake. “You’re going to be operating on peoples brains and stuff. I don’t know how I feel about that, to be quite honest.”

“Don’t worry, Li, doesn’t have to be your brain.”

“Oi, you can operate on my brain anytime there, Lou,” Niall says, flashing a grin.

“Mine too,” Zayn chimes in.

Harry slurps loudly from his milkshake.

After they’ve finished, they all say their goodbyes, Zayn and Niall joining Liam in his car. Harry hangs back though, indignantly like he doesn’t actually want to go with Louis either. He hasn’t spoken a word since the Uni talk, no matter how many times Louis’ tried to catch his eye and send him a reassuring smile. Harry does end up getting into the passenger seat, and once again goes for Louis’ iPod, this time choosing _The Fray_. Although it’s one of their most depressing songs, so the initial surprise is dissipated. He watches from the corner of his eye as Harry curls up into the seat, arms folded across his chest like a child who’s favourite toy was taken away.

“So, what’s going on? Am I dropping you off at home?”

“No.”

“Okay, then,” Louis says, dragging each syllable, “so, you’re coming over?”

Harry says nothing. Louis rolls his eyes, and takes that as a yes.

Louis’ mum stops them on their way in, offering tea, and Harry agrees without hesitation. Louis’ mum has practically adopted Harry as her own, as Harry’s mum has with him. They all get along great, and it was not unusual for the four of them to go out together; shopping, eating, even excursions out of the city. They sit and chat with her for over a half an hour, and by the time they head to Louis’ room, Harry seems to be back to his usual self.

The door is barely closed behind them before Harry’s stripping off his clothes, left in only his underwear. Louis doesn’t bother offering him pyjamas anymore, already knowing that he won’t take them. (“I like to be free, Louis. Pyjamas are too constricting. You know how I sleep naked at home.”) Louis opts for a t-shirt, and avoids looking at Harry straight on.

They curl under his blankets, and watch a few skits on _Comedy Central_ before Harry finally speaks up. “So…” he says, face peeking out of Louis’ comforter. “Edinburgh or Oxford, huh?”

“Ah, there it is,” Louis says. “I was waiting to see how long it would take to get it out of you.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and then flops onto his back, whining. “Why do you have to go away to school? Why can’t you just stay here and hang out with me all the time?” 

He laughs, rolling onto his side to face Harry. “As appealing as that would be, you know I have to go to school so I can make money to support your broke arse. Think of the children, Haz.”

Louis catches the brief smirk that sneaks across his lips. He counts it as a win. “Can’t you just go to Sheffield?”

“Maybe, but you know I have to go to the better school if I get in.”

“Like Oxford?” he asks, bitterly.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Louis says. “It’s like, a three hour train ride away. I’ll still come on weekends sometimes, and you can visit me. It won’t be that bad. You’ll barely even notice.”

Harry snorts, muttering under his breath, “Oh, I’ll notice.”

Louis pokes him in the side, and Harry bites onto his thumbnail in attempt to hide the smile.

“I could always skip sixth form and come with you.”

Louis thinks that he’s probably kidding, he has to be, but Harry’s staring at the ceiling so incredibly straight-faced that Louis’ worried that he might not. All Louis can think of to do is laugh, nervously, and say, “Oh, god.”

“You know I’d follow you anywhere, darling,” Harry drawls, gushingly. He turns back onto his side, pushing his face right up against Louis’. He’s close enough that Louis can feel his eyelashes fluttering.  

He laughs, relieved, and attempts not to focus on Harry’s breath against his chin, warm and sweet. “As lovely of a trophy wife you’d be, you know you have to go to Uni. I’ll foot the mansions in London and the French Riviera, but you’re buying the yacht. It’s only fair.”

Harry forces back his smile to pout instead. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“No, you’re not,” Louis says, dismissively, turning onto his back. “You’re not following me to Uni. What would you even do? Live under my bed in res?”

“No, I could go to school to become a hairdresser, or - ”

Louis bursts out into laughter. “You can’t even tame your own hair.”

“Shut up, can too,” Harry says. “And, don’t pretend like you don’t love my luscious curls.”

Louis turns his head to look at him, lips pressed together to keep himself from laughing further. “I would never,” he says, seriously.

Harry punches him in the shoulder, pout returning. “I hate you.”

“Harry, stop it. You’re being way too over the top about this. It’s only April.”

Harry’s bottom lip protrudes further.

Louis sneaks his hand under the covers, and grabs a hold of his bare waist, tickling.

Harry squeals, flailing as he tries to knock Louis’ hand away. It’s too easy with him. “Lou- _is_ ,” he says, pitch loud enough to wake the dogs across the street.

“Harr- _eh_ ,” he mimics.  

Harry’s finally able to knock Louis’ hand away, cheeks pink and the corners of his eyes wet from laughing. Once he’s finally calmed down enough to stop flailing, he sinks back onto his side, eyes flicking over Louis’ complexion. Louis realizes their faces are inches away again, and Harry is very blatantly staring at his mouth.

Harry has made it abundantly clear that he wants to kiss Louis again. He’s never said it - they haven’t even talked about New Year’s - but Louis would have to be blind not to notice the way he’s been crowding into his space so much more than before, never hiding the fact that he’s staring at his mouth for far too long. That little shit even takes every opportunity to strip down into his tiny briefs, much like now, flaunting his bits. Louis’ done quite well at pulling away, sometimes even walking away completely. He can feel himself become weaker and weaker though, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before Harry breaks him completely. He thinks that as horrible as it will be to leave, maybe a break is exactly what they need right now; before they do something stupid, something irreversible, something they won’t be able to ignore quite so easily.

Louis would be lying if he were to say he hasn’t thought about what happened between them on New Year’s. Because he has - _a lot_. He tries not to, but it seems the more he tries to ignore it the bigger it becomes - in dreams where he wakes up hard and out of breath, the thoughts of Harry that trickle into his mind when he’s getting himself off. He, too finds himself zoning out to realize he was staring at Harry’s mouth, or his arse, or the way his body looks in his increasingly tighter clothing. At first he did try to push away the thoughts, tried to think of someone else, watch more porn but, eventually he gave up and succumbed to wherever his fantasies brought him. He already knows he’s probably been in love with Harry since the first day he met him in year eight, but somehow he had managed to (mostly) separate it sexually. Until now. Until New Year’s when Harry just had to go and kiss him, and Louis just had to go along. He knew that the moment he started imagining Harry in that way - naked, and moaning, and writhing underneath him - all self-control and willpower would eventually dwindle away into nothing. He still has some left, but he worries it’s only a matter of time before Harry kisses him again, and he won’t be able to stop him. But he has to, he can never again let it happen outside of his own mind and body. He can’t ruin what they have. He cannot lose Harry.

Louis blows a puff of air into Harry’s face, as if that itself will blow away the tension building up between them. He turns all the way around to his other side, facing the television. He can feel Harry’s eyes on the back of his neck, and he tries not to notice the way it prickles with heat.

*

On the first weekend of September, Louis’ mum throws him a going away party. It all feels too surreal; even with his friends and family surrounding him, bouncing from celebratory congratulations to tearful goodbyes. In a way, he has been waiting for this day since the moment he stepped into Hall’s Cross, but now that it’s here Louis’ not sure how to place it, doesn’t know if it will be as easy as he once thought.

He’s imagined it all - the clichés like strolling past ivy covered buildings and sipping tea, wearing school sweaters and wool scarves while watching football matches, classes full of hundreds of new faces, staying up til’ three a.m. to cram for a final with new friends. University means a new city, means a new life, a reinvention. He’s thought about what it would be like to shed _Louis Tomlinson, football star, perfect kid._ To find out who he is, instead of what people expect him to be. Maybe, just maybe, he could even be out.

It’s a whole new world laid out just before him, finally so close that he can touch it with the tip of his fingers. But then there’s a sadness as well. He didn’t think it would be this hard to leave his family and friends. Harry. Even the school he’s spent the past seven years hating.  But, mostly - mostly, he doesn’t want to leave Harry behind.

Once Louis received his acceptance letters, he had taken a few days to inform Harry, quite solemnly, that Oxford was his choice. Harry withdrew, as expected, and even though it was for no more than a week, Louis felt disorientated the entire time. In the four years they had been friends they never spent longer than a few days apart - aside from obligatory family vacations, or the rare times that Louis himself had pushed away. Once that initial week passed though, Harry spent the following three months clinging to Louis as if he were dying. Louis didn’t mind so much, but everyone else did; his own mother had even engaged in a silent power struggle over who was allowed more of Louis’ time. Despite the fact that she carried him in the womb for nine months and you know, raised him, somehow Harry still managed to come out victorious.

While Louis is ecstatic about having gotten into one of the best schools, he’s not exactly thrilled it’s one of the furthest away. He’s had his fantasies on how University will be, but the one part he was never able to reconcile was the fact that there would be a Harry-shaped hole. Harry had been his constant, his anchor in a way. Who would be there to laugh at his dumb jokes, or break down his walls when he shut down? There was a day or two that Louis had become so paralyzed in fear about leaving that he nearly considered going to Sheffield instead. Eventually, he had shaken out of it, telling himself that’s not something best mates do.

Harry’s putting no effort into pretending now, having spent the past two hours of the party moping in a lawn chair pushed away from the party. Louis’ hovering near the food table on the other side of the yard, watching as he flips his phone open and closed until Louis’ sure it will snap in half.

Zayn sidles up next to him, getting his attention by clinking his beer bottle against Louis’. “Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers.” Louis acknowledges him with a smile and nod, before looking back to Harry, who has now moved onto digging a hole into the lawn with his foot.

“He’s really not happy about you leaving. He’s been like a mopey eight year-old for the past week.”

“Try month.”

“Or three.”

Louis sighs, pushing his fringe from his eyes. “Give it a month. School’s only just started. He still has all of you guys, and he’ll be so busy with school that he won’t even notice until I’m back for the weekend.”

Zayn snorts, doubtful. “It’s Harry. He won’t be that busy, and both of us know that he’d trade all three of us to keep you.”

“Shut up,” Louis says, cheeks heating. “You’re supposed to make me feel better, not more guilty.”

Zayn laughs, slapping an arm around him, squeezing his shoulder. “I know, mate, and you’re right. He’ll be fine.”

Louis sighs once more, curling into Zayn's side. “I’ll miss you too, you know,” he says, mumbled into his t-shirt.

“And I’ll miss you.” Zayn frowns a bit, eyebrows furrowing. “I’ve been trying to picture what it will be like without you around.”

Louis hums in agreement. He may consider Harry his best mate, but he has known Zayn the longest. Long enough that Louis was even at the hospital when he was born, not that he remembers, being so young himself. Zayn has always been there, has been around for every part of his life - the significant to the mundane. He was the one that Louis had first discovered football with. He had learned every skateboard trick with him. He was the one that Louis was known to get into trouble with, and consequently get grounded with - once, even suspended - more times than they could count. They got high for the first time together. Got in fist fights - with each other and with others. They had sleepovers every weekend in primary school, staying up late and playing videogames. They both had their separate group of friends come secondary, Zayn with the artsy kids who smoked behind the school, and Louis with his football friends; but it was always each other they would come back to at the end of the day. Things had turned a bit tense when Harry first came into the picture. Zayn never admitted it, but Louis understood that it bothered him to see someone fit so easily into the space he had been for so many years. Harry did not replace him by any means, no one could, but he and Louis meshed so well and so quickly, in ways that he and Zayn never could.

“You are all acting like I am dying,” Louis says. “I’m only going a few miles away. I’m easily accessible by a three hour and fifty-two minute train ride.”

“Yes, yes, but who will possibly be a rebellious teenager and wreak havoc on society with me now?”

“Niall?” Louis suggests.

Zayn makes a face, and shakes his head. “Nah, he’s still a baby. Don’t want to corrupt his innocence.”

While laughing, Louis catches Harry watching them from the corner of his eye. When he turns to look at him however, to offer a smile, he instantly deflects his attention back to his phone.

Under most circumstances, Louis tends to act like more of the child between the two of them - not that he’s usually one to own up to it. He can get loud and hyper and boisterous, can never take rejection or criticism well, and has been known to lash out over the smallest of offences. Even though Harry was only twelve when they met, Louis had noticed the mature, collected air to him right away. Louis admired that about him, admired that he still allowed himself to act silly and quirky and wholly himself. Harry holds an innocent naivete that allows him to go with the flow, to take everything as it comes to him, always optimistic, to love freely and deeply. In that way he is more of a child than Louis will ever be, still holding something rich and full of hope that has long been taken away from him. He has always looked to Harry to be the light for him, to be the voice of reason and optimism, but now with Harry shut down, everything feels all wrong and out of place.

Louis keeps his gaze on Harry, half-listening to Zayn talk of his fit English teacher. Finally, Harry looks up, eyes meeting. Louis offers a small smile, sending him a thumbs up. Harry rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. Slowly, he raises his own hand, thumb popped.

*

Louis can’t sleep the night before he’s meant to leave for Uni. He tosses and turns for two hours until finally admitting defeat and texts Harry. _You up?_ he asks even though the clock reads 12:34 and Harry has school tomorrow.

There’s a five minute interval, Louis not expecting a reply, when his phone vibrates in his hand. _Ya, can’t sleep either?_

 _No._ He waits a moment, then says, _come over?_

He’s surprised when not even a minute later, Harry replies back with a simple, _ok._

Louis tells him to come around back, and he meets him in his yard, the grass cool on his bare feet. Harry sets his bike against the fence, and joins Louis on his garden swing, sweatpants low on his hips. They swing in silence, Louis’ thoughts just as quiet as he stares up at the moon. Louis pulls out half a spliff and a lighter from his jumper pocket.

“Are you scared?” Harry asks while Louis inhales.  

Louis nods, blowing out a stream of sweet smoke. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Scared doesn’t do it justice. Louis is fucking terrified. He’s still in a place of disbelief, waiting for Oxford to retract his acceptance at any moment.

“You’ll be great. You’ll do great. Good grades, you’ll be the popular guy on campus in - ”

“Harry, you know I’m gay, right?” Louis asks, abruptly, surprising even himself.

Harry opens and closes his mouth, once, twice, and then finishes with staring at Louis in bewilderment.

Louis takes two extra puffs, thrumming his fingers against his thighs in anticipation. It was easier than he thought it would be, even though he can feel his heart in his ribcage, steady and light.  

“I - I know,” Harry says, eventually.

“I’ve been thinking about being out. You know at Uni, and I figured I should at least try it out with you first.” He blushes, and shakes his head instantly. “I mean, telling you.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah.” Harry’s eyebrows furrow a bit. Louis hands him the now small stub, and he takes it between his thumb and index, graciously. He sucks back the smoke, lungs inflating in his old, ripped up Boyzone t-shirt. Once he exhales, he says, “Me too. I mean, I’m gay too.”

“I know.”

Harry looks at him, curiously, and takes the last hit before snubbing it out with his finger. He hands it to Louis, who pockets it. “Why have we waited so long to say it then?”

Louis shrugs. “Wasn’t ready, I guess.”

They both look at each other. Harry’s eyes drop to Louis’ lips, tongue brushing subconsciously over his own. Louis’ gotten used to this over the months, but he’s hanging by a thread now, one that’s been wearing with every hooded look, with everyday that passes.  

“You’ve never done anything with a guy, have you?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head. _Only with you._ “No, have you?”

“Once. Before year nine. At camp. Just a bit of groping behind a tree.”

Louis stares at him, shocked, something unfamiliar looming in his gut. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry shrugs, looking embarrassed. “Because… I don’t know. I didn’t even know how to tell you I was gay, never mind that I messed about with a bloke.”

Louis snaps his mouth shut, pressed into a thin line. The tugging in his gut is starting to feel a lot like jealousy, even though it seems absurd to him. Louis tries to think back to that summer, thinks back to the beginning of his eleventh year, shuffles through his memories to find signs in the awkward and still prepubescent Harry. He thinks that maybe that was the year Harry started to wear more pink and adopted a tote bag that looked an awful lot like a purse, but he can’t be sure. Either way, he cannot begin to fathom someone else touching Harry, kissing him. He doesn’t want to. Louis has put a lot of effort into making sure nothing happens between them, but suddenly he’s hit with an overwhelming feeling that no one else should be allowed to touch him. Before, after, or ever. Suddenly, he’s thinking about how one day Harry will meet a boy, and that eventually, he’ll have sex. Possibly even soon. Louis’ noticed the way people have started to look at him, the way he’s growing flawlessly into himself, seemingly more attractive every time Louis looks at him.

It’s ridiculous that he’s feeling this way, that he feels light-headed and a little bit sick over the idea of someone else getting there before Louis, kissing him and pressing into places that should be his. Louis’ never thought of Harry as strictly his, but with every person that does a double take at Harry lately, Louis has found himself becoming more and more possessive. A few times he’s had to consciously stop himself from grabbing onto Harry and hissing, _mine._

“What are you thinking?” Harry asks, quietly.

Louis closes his eyes, and breathes out through his mouth. Maybe it’s the weed or the final last bit of self-control leaving his body, because he says, “About how the thought of another guy touching you makes me sick.”

He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, even with his own closed, and he realizes then that they’ve stopped swinging. “You - ” Harry starts, and then immediately stops. 

Louis opens his eyes slowly, forcing his gaze to meet Harry’s. He realizes how close they are, the way he can count his heartbeats in his ears. Harry exhales once, and then leans in, closing the space between their mouths.

Louis doesn’t even try to fight it; just sinks in and kisses him back with intention, already pushing Harry’s lips apart to get in deeper. In what seems like no time, Harry’s breath is coming out in heavy spurts, the same breaths that had gotten Louis instantly hard on New Year’s. He’s pressed up against Louis, so close he’s practically on top of him, and Louis has to pull away while they still have a chance. “Hey, let’s go inside, yeah?”

They have to tiptoe into Louis’ house and down the stairs, careful not to wake his entire household. Harry is gripping onto his waist from behind, open mouth sliding against the back of his neck with every step. Louis has never been more thankful for his room being in the basement, away from the rest of his family.

The second they close the door, Harry’s mouth is back on his, desperate. There’s boxes everywhere, and they knock into a few before finally reaching his bed. Louis can hardly believe that this is happening, that this is Harry against him, Harry making these noises, Harry’s fingers that are inching along his bare stomach.

Louis pins Harry underneath him, thumb stroking his cheek as he kisses him into his pillow. He’s already getting hard, and he can feel Harry against his thigh. He’s never done this with another guy, never even kissed one besides Harry. He’s torn between the part of his brain that wants it so badly that he might explode, to the part that’s freaking out enough to want to stop and tell him to get out. He’s watched his fair share of porn, even researched the mechanics of it in hopes that he’d meet a guy in university who’d actually want to sleep with him, but none of that prepares him for having a real life boy writhing underneath him. He may be nineteen, and about to go to university to become a doctor, but he suddenly feels very, very young.

Harry pushes Louis’ shirt up until it’s bunched under his armpits. Louis gets the hint and sits up, bringing Harry with him, mouths barely breaking. Louis pulls his own shirt off, and then Harry’s, in a speed with which he didn’t even know was possible. They fall back down, and Louis runs his hand from Harry’s flat torso over his chest to the clefts of his collarbone.

Louis had a list of the reasons why doing this would be a horrible idea, why this could never happen, and had gone over it so many times that he could probably recite it backwards. Yet, now he can’t think of even a single reason. Harry just feels so good underneath him. They fit perfectly, falling into a rhythm so easily for two who don’t have much experience. Though Louis isn’t too surprised, not when they fit so well together in every other way.

“They don’t have to, you know,” Harry says breathless, into Louis’ mouth.

Louis keeps kissing him, before willing himself to pull away long enough to ask, “What?”

“Other guys,” he says, while Louis latches onto his collarbone. “They don’t have to touch me.”

Despite the cloudiness in his head, Louis gets what he’s saying almost instantly, though he wishes he hadn’t. Not right now, anyway. So, instead of replying he kisses him again, almost painfully hard. Harry lets out a noise, and clings to Louis’ biceps. He wraps a leg around him, using the leverage to grind his hips into Louis’.

He gasps, mouth slipping, forehead dropping onto Harry’s. “Shit.”

Harry mouths at his ear, tongue on his lobe. “Hey, hey, Lou,” he murmurs, and somehow, Louis already knows what he’s going to say. “Can we - do you want to - I just want to be close to you. I mean, I know it’s - But. Please. If you - if you want to.”   

Louis’ not sure what comes over him, but he rocks his hips against Harry’s, breathing hotly down his neck, Harry’s curls tickling his nose. “Tell me, Harry. What do you want?”

“Fuck,” he says in a moan, “fuck, Lou. I want you, inside of me. I want you to be my first. I want to be yours.”

Heat flares in his chest, spreading all the way throughout his body, cock jolting. For a moment Louis thinks he might come from just that. “Shit. Yeah.” He sits up, tugging down his pants at an alarmingly fast speed. “Take yours off.”

Harry seems to be in a daze, back still on the mattress, as he stares up at Louis. He looks so gorgeous spread out beneath him, hair a mess, lips raw and cheeks pink. Louis has imagined this a hundred times, but none of that can prepare him for actually seeing it, laid out before him. There’s no comparison, and it takes everything in Louis to finish taking off his pants without falling back onto Harry and devouring him. There’s no doubt they could get off just like this, but that’s not enough for Louis. He wants it just as bad, to be inside of him, to feel him. He wants to leave for University tomorrow and be able to carry a piece of Harry with him.

“Harry,” he says after no movement. He slaps him lightly on the hip, and then crawls over him to dig into his dresser to grab lube. He remembers the box of condoms he packed in his bag, just in case, hoped it would bring him luck. He goes to retrieve them, but Harry grabs a hold of his wrist before his feet hit the floor. “It’s okay. We don’t need them?”

Louis looks at him, eyes searching. Harry’s pupils are so wide they seem to take up his entire face. He’s right, after all. It’s not like either of them can get pregnant, and with both of them being virgins in every way possible, he doubts there’s much to worry about. “Sure?”

“’Course.” Harry tugs him back, kicking his pants off the rest of the way.

All thoughts seem to temporarily vacate his mind as soon as their naked bodies press together. It feels electric, like tiny bolts are prickling throughout every inch of his body. He can barely breath, barely move, as Harry cups his chin, kissing him softly. “You okay?”

Louis nods, just barely.

Harry drops his head against the pillow, and runs his eyes over Louis, stroking his hair behind his ear. Louis can’t help but take the moment as an opportunity to look between their bodies, to where Harry is curved along his stomach.

“That’s your penis,” he says, dumbly, in shock.

Harry giggles, eyes crinkling around the edges. “And that’s yours,” he says, reaching between them to stroke a hand along it.

Louis moans, pressing his nose into his cheek, wondering where he got the guts to do that.

Harry strokes his hip, drawing circles around the bone. “On a scale of one to ten, how awkward is this for you right now?” he asks, whispered into his ear.

Louis blinks up at him. “I don’t know. A 3.5? It’s not really the first thing on my mind, to be honest.” His eyes sweep over Harry, his still raw lips, and wonders why the hell they’re talking right now.

“Fair enough.” He laughs. “What _are_ you thinking?”

“Mostly, holy shit I’m about to have sex, and holy shit I’m about to have sex with Harry and he just touched my dick. And also, he won't shut up.”

Harry laughs, and he finally leans in to reconnect their lips, tongue running along his bottom lip. "Sorry," he murmurs. They exchange kisses, growing more heated with each one, before Louis finds himself asking, “Are you nervous?”

Harry nods. “Are you?”

“I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. I mean, I do, but to actually do it.” He swallows, nudging his nose along Harry’s, breathing in his smell.

Harry runs his hands up and along Louis’ chest, fingering his nipple. “I can do the first part, you know, the prepping or whatever, if it’s too awkward. I totally get it.”

Pulling back a bit, Louis stares at him, gut curling with heat and curiosity. “You mean - have you done it before?”

Harry turns his head to the side, as if trying to hide his blush into the pillow.

“Shit, you have.” Louis squeezes his side, and Harry laughs instantly, knocking his hand away, only to intertwine their fingers.

“Shut up,” he says, shrugging bashfully, “only a few times. Just to see.” He runs his thumb along Louis’, and arches his head up, kissing the skin above his mouth. “I thought about you every time,” he whispers.

Louis growls into Harry’s neck without meaning to, biting at the skin. “What.The. Hell.” He jerks his hip against Harry, breath catching as his cock slides against his thigh. “Okay, okay, let’s do this.” He grabs Harry’s wrist, pressing at his pulse point. “And as hot as that image is, I’ll do it.”

Harry doesn’t put up a fight as Louis coats his fingers, chest thrumming with nerves and anticipation and pure need. He does feel awkward, and so clueless, as Harry hooks a leg around his hip. He just kind of wiggles his fingers around, waiting for direction and approval from Harry. He works his way up to three, and he can’t even begin to wrap his head around how he’s going to fit in there.

He probably spends too much time at opening him up, just wanting to be sure, and Harry has to tap at his shoulder, insisting that he’s okay. He’s breathing heavy, a few moans between his lips, so Louis takes that as a good sign, at least.

They rearrange themselves, both of Harry’s legs wrapped around his waist, cock coated heavily with lube. He noses along Harry’s jaw. “Are you sure you want to do this?"

Harry nods, fingertips digging into the back of Louis’ neck just below his hairline. “Yeah,” he breathes, “positive.”

“I just - fuck. I’m so scared of hurting you.”

Harry tilts his head, smiling as he connects their lips. “It’s okay,” he says. “First times are supposed to hurt a bit.” He tightens his legs around Louis, pulling him forward, laughing. “Now, come on. Do it already, before I go and find someone else.”

“Fuck.” Louis laughs, shaking his head, and bites Harry’s lip in retaliation. He grabs onto Harry’s hips, fingers dipping into his hipbone, and lines himself up. He’s thinking he has five seconds to back out, before he’s pushing in.

“Oh, god,” Harry says, almost instantly, and yanks Louis down so he can bite onto his shoulder.

“Should I - ” Louis halts, halfway in.

Harry slaps his other side, and jerks himself back, pushing down into Louis. “Lou.”  

Louis gets the hint, and pushes himself in the rest of the way. It’s already too much to handle; he feels dizzy. He’s never experienced anything so tight and hot and wonderful. He could probably, actually, die right now, but he has a feeling Harry would not appreciate that much.

He wills himself to stop moaning, biting at Harry’s jaw as he starts a rhythm. Harry keeps his face pressed into Louis’ shoulder for the first few minutes, muffling small, choked noises into his slick skin. Every limb is wrapped around Louis, practically clawing at him, like he can’t get enough. Louis loves it, loves having Harry everywhere.

Louis can’t hold it in anymore, letting out a loud moan into his neck. He barely has enough mind to remember he’s in his house, his mum, his sisters, just upstairs.

Just when Louis is starting to worry that he’ll come before it gets good for Harry, he goes slack against him, head dropping to the pillow. “Oh, shit,” he moans, and drags Louis down with him, urging their lips together with bruising force. “Okay, that was good. Keep doing that.”

Louis keeps his focus, attempting to push in at the same angle. He seems to succeed, because Harry’s moaning even louder against his mouth this time. “Oh, thank god,” he says, breathlessly, and Harry laughs.

They don’t last for much longer, especially once Louis allows himself to pick up tempo. He musters up enough courage to reach for Harry’s cock and begin stroking as he feels his orgasm approaching. He comes first, causing him to lose all brain function, and Harry finishes himself off while Louis breathes heavily into his chest.

Harry whines when he pulls out, and Louis falls onto his back, pulling Harry with him. He kisses his cheek, his ear, before resting in his curls, damp with sweat. “Oh my god,” he manages to say, laughing a little bit.

Harry clings to him, arm slung over his chest, body half on top of his. Louis can feel his chest rumble over his in quiet laughter. “I can’t believe we just did that. I can’t believe I just had actual sex with Louis.”

“Did you just refer to me in third person?”

Harry tilts his head up, nose and smile pressed against his cheek. Louis turns his head, catching his mouth in a deep kiss. He cards his fingers through Harry’s curls; he just wants to touch him, always. “Well, I can’t believe I just had sex with Harry.”

Harry laughs, and nudges their noses together, eyes locked. He waits a minute, and then says, voice quiet, “I love you.”

Louis inhales, breath catching in his throat. Harry just stares at him, eyes wide, like he’s afraid he won’t say it back. Louis presses his hand flat against Harry’s chest, feeling his heart beat against his fingers. He brushes their lips together, soft and says, “Love you too, Haz.”

Harry smiles, so radiant that Louis is at a loss for air. He lays his hand against Louis’, fingers slipping between the spaces.


	2. ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairing:** harry styles/omc, brief: harry styles/nick grimshaw (main: harry styles/louis tomlinson)  
>  **warning:** violence

_ ii. Harry_

By quarter to midnight, Harry has officially given up. Louis’ not coming.

Niall throws a party at his house, small enough to fit in his basement. Harry would’ve been perfectly fine staying at home alone for the night, but the three of them had all but kidnapped him, throwing him into Liam’s car earlier that evening. There’s nearly twenty people there. Some of Zayn’s artsy friends, Liam’s new girlfriend and some of her friends, and he assumes that the guys drinking from a beer bong in the laundry room are Niall’s. He tries to ignore their disapproving glances as he spends most of the night texting in the corner. He’s gotten pretty good at doing it with one hand, while sipping from his beer with the other.

Niall manages to get him off the couch five minutes before midnight, pulling him to the pool table that’s covered in half-empty bottles of alcohol. He pours a shot of vodka for both of them but with his stupid 2012 glasses, in addition to the heavy drinking, most of it misses the glasses. With time and careful concentration, he manages to fill them until their brimming at the edge. People have started to gather around the TV, waiting for the countdown to begin.

“Glad you came out, mate,” Niall says. He wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulder, pulling him in for a hug.

Harry returns it by slinging an arm around his waist, nuzzling into his side. He loves Niall, even if he has tacky New Year’s glasses.

The countdown begins, the entire basement joining in. Harry even finds himself mouthing along after the five second mark.

“Three… Two… One… Happy New Years!” The entire room erupts, cups clinking, streamers being blown. When everyone pairs off to kiss, Harry’s mind wanders to last year until Niall distracts him with a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Happy New Year, Harry!”

Harry laughs, and Niall shoves the shot at him before taking his own. They raise it to each other in cheers, Harry wishing him a Happy New Year. They tip their heads back and pour the shots down their throats in one go. Niall pours them two more, ignoring Harry’s objections.

Harry is significantly pissed after that. He allows himself to be dragged into the small crowd of people dancing to house music. It’s mostly just an awkward attempt at shuffling and jumping, but Harry goes along with it, pumping his fists into the air with Niall. Even Liam and Zayn join them at one point, and they all end up in a four way hug, yelling Happy New Year's at one another. None of them mention how wrong it feels without Louis there with them. He knows they’re all thinking it, and he feels guilty, like it’s his fault that he’s not.

Harry leaves the dance floor soon after to find another drink. He’s just popping the lid off his beer, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out, squinting at the name that flashes across the screen. For one split second, his drunken heart leaps at the possibility of it being Louis, but it’s Chris’ name that he reads.

“Ello there, Christopher.”

“Finally, what the fuck?” the voice says on the other line. He doesn’t wait for Harry’s reply before he’s asking, “Are you still at Niall’s?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m coming to pick you up.”

Harry looks around the room to where his friends are still jumping up and down, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. “Um, okay. Now?”

“Yes, now. I’ll be there in five. Wait outside for me, yeah?”

Harry obliges without question. Outside, he dusts off a patch of snow from the curb so he can sit down, still nursing his beer bottle. He realizes he forgot to say goodbye.

True to his word, Chris pulls up a few minutes later, rap music blasting inside his car. Chris is hot, but Harry hates his music. Harry clambers into the car, and leans in across the console for a kiss. Chris kisses him back, just briefly, before pushing Harry away by the shoulder. “Not here, okay? And throw that bottle outside, would you?”

Harry sighs, taking one last, long swig before opening the door to throw it onto the road. He barely has the door closed before Chris is taking off down the street.

“Happy New Year's to you, too.”

“Happy New Years, Harry,” Chris says with little enthusiasm.

Harry’s too drunk to gauge whether Chris is too, but he assumes he must be. The tiny part of his brain that isn’t soaked in alcohol is telling him that being in a car with him right now probably isn’t the smartest choice. Louis would never drive drunk.

Chris pulls into a parking lot, driving to the end not covered by a lamppost. Beyond the tree in front of them, Harry can see the outline of a children’s park. He knows this park, all too painfully well. He doesn’t understand why Chris had to pick _this_ park. He wonders if he has some kind of fifth sense. It’s dark, but Harry can make out the tube from here. He feels sick.

Chris keeps the ignition on, but has the mind to at least turn the music off without Harry having to ask this time. Harry crawls into the backseat without a word, but it takes him a bit longer than usual, due to his lack of coordination. Chris follows along behind him, pinning Harry to the seat. Harry just wants to forget about what’s outside.

They’ve only ever fooled around in Chris’ car, and he hates it. It’s too small for the both of them, Harry too tall and Chris too muscular. It’s cramped and awkward and Harry always ends up with a sore neck later. He always goes for it, anyway, because who is he to turn down some action just because of a little discomfort?

“Did you have a New Years kiss?” Harry asks, muffled into his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, simply, “did you?”

“Not really.”

Chris doesn’t ask any more questions, just kisses him harder and begins to rock against him. Harry isn’t too overly invested in Chris. He’s hot, and can be quite charming when he wants to be, but Harry certainly isn’t head over heels. He tries to think about who he could’ve kissed though, which cheerleader or girl from the cricket team. Harry’s heard rumours about this girl, Halli, some year ten with big tits, so he figures it was probably her. Harry might not be in love with Chris or anything, yet he can’t help but care every time he hears about Chris’ latest hook-up with what’s-her-face. It’s annoying that he’s reduced to back of the car hook-ups in dark parks or sketchy alleys, and these girls get to brag about it to the entire school. To every girl in the school it’s a freaking accomplishment to bag Chris Ryan’s, but for him it’s treated as some embarrassment. Especially when Harry knows that he’s the only one Chris actually _likes_ getting off with.

“I was thinking that I’d like to fuck you,” Chris says after awhile of grinding up against each other, air around them becoming heated and muggy.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Chris repeats. He sits up on his elbow, staring down at Harry in puzzlement. “That was surprisingly calm.”

Harry shrugs. “Sorry?”

“You haven’t done this before, have you?” He narrows his eyebrows, suspiciously.

“Yeah.”

“Yes? With who?” he asks, looking pissed.

Harry blinks, shifts under Chris’ weight. “No one. It’s not important.”

Chris looks at him, eyes running over his expression. Harry wiggles and pushes his face into the back of the seat, hoping it’ll prevent Chris from reading him like a book. “It was Louis, wasn’t it?”

No such luck.

“Maybe,” he says into the nylon. It reeks of weed and sweat.

“I knew it. I knew there was something between you two.”

Chris is not going to let this go on his own, so Harry removes his face from the seat, and attempts to pull him down for a kiss. He manages to brush their lips together just briefly, before Chris is pulling back again. “So, did you guys fuck all the time?”

Harry gives out a small, frustrated groan. “No,” he says, reaching for Chris’ fly. He needs him to stop talking. “It was just once, okay. Before he fucked off to Uni.”

“But... you don’t talk anymore,” Chris says, batting Harry’s hand away from where it’s trying to snake into his underwear. Harry’s uncertain as to whether that was meant to be posed as a question, or if he’s looking to dig the knife in a little bit deeper.

Harry whines through his teeth, pushing his palms into his eyes. “Whattaya want? We don’t. It’s not a big deal. Can you let it go?”

“So, basically he fucked and chucked you then?”

Harry’s drunk. His brain is foggy, his vision blurry, but even still, Chris’ words are like a punch to his gut. He swallows, and blinks. “Guess you could say that,” he says with the straightest voice he can muster. He frowns, pushing Chris’ trousers down his hips. “Moving on, you gonna fuck me now?” he asks, harshly. There’s still an ache, right in between his ribcage. Chris’ words were everything he was trying not to think about. His words were the truth that he’s been avoiding, long and sharp as the knife.

Chris lifts himself off Harry to discard his pants, while Harry does the same to his own. They don’t bother taking off their shirts. Chris reaches for his wallet in his back pocket, grabbing a condom, before tossing it in the front seat. He straddles Harry, bringing the condom to his teeth to rip open.

Harry stares at him. “Lube?”

“I don’t have any,” he says, like it’s a simple enough answer, and Harry realizes he has no idea what he’s doing.

“You can’t fuck me without lube. I don’t have a pussy.”

“Okay, Okay.” He groans, as if it’s all a pointless inconvenience, dropping the condom packet on Harry’s chest. He leans over into the front seat, shuffling through the glove box. Harry allows himself the pleasure of watching his bare ass, full and round and athletic. He doesn’t understand how he keeps getting himself involved with these football players, being so far from one himself. Harry often fakes illness or hides in the locker room during P.E., yet here he is, sleeping with two consecutive football captains. Sometimes he really wishes this didn’t have to be a secret, he’d be a legend. Maybe, possibly, a slut as well.

When Chris returns to face Harry he has a pink bottle in hand. “Is this okay?”

Harry looks at the flowers, the sparkles, the _hot kiss_ , and wrinkles his nose. “You want to fuck me with lotion that some girl left in your car?”

“Yeah, will it work?”

Harry sighs, staring at the bottle for a moment longer, contemplating. He has a feeling it’s not only going to hurt, but it’s going to sting like hell. They’re in a backseat of a car that reeks of gym socks, and they’re close to getting monoxide poisoning from the engine still being on. Harry has a knot in the middle of his throat, threatening to pour out, but he’s also drunk as hell. He’s drunk and sad, maybe a little bit heartbroken, and maybe Chris fucking him is exactly what he needs right now. “Sure, whatever.” He grabs the bottle from Chris, squeezing some of the lotion onto his fingers. It smells like what he sprays his bathroom with. “Feel it tomorrow.”

Harry preps himself, not trusting Chris to do it properly. He doesn’t do that great of a job himself, too sloppy and uncoordinated, but he figures it’s better than nothing at all. It burns already, and he knows that he will regret this five times over once he’s not able to walk for a week.

He realizes he’s not even completely hard by the time Chris has got the condom on, and he feels sticky with lotion. Harry’s not sure if his lack of arousal is because of the alcohol, or just because he doesn’t care.

Chris has had enough sex in his life that he should be good at it. After all, Harry figures a vagina can’t be all that different. He’s rough and a little bit sloppy though, and Harry spends most of it staring up at the car ceiling, his half-hard cock neglected between them. Chris seems to be having a great time though, grunting into his shoulder. It hurts and stings like all hell, even with the alcohol numbing him. He tries to think of something else, to make the time go by faster, but the only place his mind wanders is to Louis, and that just makes it worse.

Fortunately, Chris finishes quickly. He ties the condom up, and tosses it onto the ground underneath the passenger seat. Harry expects Chris to pull on his pants and toss Harry’s to him, but he’s straddling Harry instead, fingers on his thighs as he bends to mouth at his cock. Harry’s never had a blowjob before, so he doesn’t have much to stack it up to. There’s a bit of teeth, which he thinks would also be painful if not for the alcohol, but all around it’s warm and wet and pretty great, and Harry ends up coming into his mouth.

Chris spits onto the car floor. “Bastard. You could’ve warned me.”

Harry smiles, crookedly. “Oops?” He’s not sorry, not really.

They get dressed without a word. Harry can feel it as he takes a seat in the front, pain shooting all the way up his spine. He grimaces, and presses his forehead against the cool glass.

“I’ll get lube next time,” Chris says, two blocks from Harry’s house.

Harry hums in recognition, not removing his face from the window. The alcohol is wearing down on him, eyelids growing heavy.

Once they reach his house, Harry reaches for the door handle and goes to leave with only a half-hearted goodbye. Chris grabs his wrist, pulling him back. “Hey,” he says in a soft voice that Harry has never heard on him before. “It was okay, right?” His eyes search Harry’s, and suddenly he’s no longer a macho athlete, but a small child looking for approval.

Harry caves. He nods, and leans forward to peck the corner of his mouth. “Happy New Year, Christopher.”

Chris reaches out, ruffling his hair, just like Harry’s dad used to do when he was younger. “Happy New Year.”  

Inside, Harry doesn’t bother changing, just kicks off his shoes and falls into bed, pulling his comforter up to his chin. He passes out almost immediately, entire body thrumming.

When his phone starts to ring from inside his pocket, he feels as if he’s only been asleep for ten minutes. He frowns, wondering what the hell Chris could possibly want now. He is too sore to fuck again tonight, or for the next year for that matter.

He doesn’t bother checking the Caller ID, just flips open his phone and mumbles a half-awake, “Wha?”

There’s a pause, faint music in the background. Finally, the person clears their throat, and says, “Hey. Hi, Haz.”

Harry’s eyes fly open. He feels himself go stiff, breath caught in his throat. This must be a dream. A dream, or a very sick joke. “Louis?” he manages to croak out.

“Hey,” he says, slowly, as if sounding out every syllable. He’s drunk. Of course he is. “How are you doing, Harry? Haz. _Harry_.”

“Fine.” He’s lying. His head is already starting to hurt, his ass feels like it’s on fire, and now Louis is talking to him all fine and dandy like he hasn’t been ignoring him for the past four months. Harry wants to punch something, and then maybe cry.

“Happy New Year’s.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I just - I just,” he says, floundering. “I don’t, Haz. It’s New Year's, and it’s. I missed you! Is that okay? Is it okay that I miss you?”

Harry bites the inside of his cheeks until he tastes blood. “Why have you been ignoring me?”

Harry can hear Louis inhale on the other line, and then there’s silence before he’s blowing out directly into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet and squeaky like a mouse.

“Where are you?”

“In Oxford.”

“Were you here?”

“Yes,” Louis says, admittedly.

Harry’s heart sinks as he clings to his comforter, cuddling it to his chest. He figured Louis had come back to Donny for his birthday and Christmas, but for him to confirm. For him to be there, and not even bother to get a hold of Harry, or to see him. Harry’s spent the past four months thinking he couldn’t possibly feel any worse, that his heart couldn’t possibly be broken any more, and he’s so tired of being proven wrong.

“I left yesterday. It was just a short visit,” he adds, quickly, as if that would change anything. It doesn’t.

“Did you see anyone?”

There’s a long pause, long enough that it gives Harry the answer he needs, but doesn’t particularly want. “I saw Zayn. Just for a bit. The day after Christmas. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Harry says nothing. He swallows, biting back the ball of tears that creeps up his throat. He will not cry about this again. He won’t.

Harry’s went over that night and the morning after so many times, that it doesn’t even feel real anymore. It feels like some intricate fantasy, some make believe dream, and with the way Louis had just dropped out of his life, he sometimes thinks it might’ve been. As far as Harry knew, everything had been fine the next morning. They exchanged lazy morning kisses, Louis was smiling, he promised he’d come for weekend visits whenever he could. They ate the pancakes his mother prepared, and Harry tried not too appear to lovesick through syrup and dough. After they had packed everything into the van, Louis had kissed him on the forehead, hands gripping his waist. Harry stood on the street and watched him through the rear-view mirror until he was a blur. Harry expected a call that night, once Louis arrived, and he ended up falling asleep with his phone in his hand. The next day when Harry called, Louis was short and abrupt and ended it all too soon. He said he was busy unpacking, had orientation, and that he’d call him back later. He didn’t, and when Harry called again the next day, he didn’t pick up, or the next day, or the next day. Harry called, and texted, and emailed - fuck, he even wrote a letter - for the next month. Nothing. Harry was devastated. He’s not even sure devastated gives proper justice to what he felt.

Louis was his best mate, he trusted him with every fibre of his being. He _gave_ Louis every fibre of his being. He’s tried to make sense of it, tried to figure it all out. He’s replayed Louis telling him that he loved him so many times that he can still feel his breath on his cheek, his hand against his chest. Louis had pushed him away before, had put up his walls and hidden away, but it was never for long. Harry always managed to get them down. He had never expected for this though. Never expected him to take all of Harry with him, miles away, build up stake, and cut all communication. Harry’s even went so far as to believe that maybe the Louis he thought he knew for all those years really wasn’t him at all. Maybe it was all an act, a rouse, but that doesn’t make much sense either. Harry’s just tired. He’s tired of trying to figure it out. He’s tired of hurting.

Harry realizes it’s been awhile since either of them have said anything. The silence is filled with music on Louis’ end, growing louder. He can even hear some voices, yelling over the bass.

“Did you have a New Year's kiss?” Louis asks, and Harry really wishes he were here in front of him so he could punch him. Or hug him. Or fuck him. He’s really not sure. Maybe all three. And maybe so much more.

“Yeah.” He pauses, and contemplates telling him more. Maybe it’s immature, but Harry’s seventeen with a broken heart and still a little bit drunk, so he says, “New Year’s shag too.”

There’s no reply on Louis’ end right away, but the music fades, as if he’s moving into another room. He smirks to himself, imagining Louis gripping the phone in his hand. “You had sex?” he finally asks, dumbfounded. “With who?”

“Chris Ryan.”

“What? That kid that was on my footie team? What the hell?”

Harry bites back a smile, pleased with himself. He sighs loud enough over the phone for Louis to hear. “Why does it matter? You made it pretty clear you don’t give a shit.”

Harry can hear another sharp inhale come from Louis’ end. He wraps a hand around his own wrist, squeezing until blood flow is cut off. “Harry, trust me, I give a shit.” He laughs, and it comes out harsh over the miles between them. “I think I give too many shits.”

He closes his eyes, lets his words sink in, lets them bounce against his capillaries. When he opens his eyes again, they’re gone. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.” It takes everything in him to get those words out. He had been waiting, _hoping_ , to hear Louis’ voice again. Hoped for an apology, that it had all been some missunderstanding. After all, Louis hadn’t just been some bloke he shagged, he had been the best mate he ever had. Harry had loved him so much that it sometimes hurt to breathe. He still does. Harry’s been wandering around these past few months like some chunk of him is missing. But Harry can’t be weak, he’s sick of being weak, and he can’t just let Louis call him drunk three hours into the new year and have that be okay. “I’ll tell Chris you said hi,” he says, aiming for a last stab. His finger hovers over end call, waiting for Louis’ finishing words.

The second he hears them, a quiet _I’m sorry_ , _Harry,_ he hangs up, and powers his phone off entirely. He hides it under his pillow, along with Louis’ apology.

*

The next morning, Harry wakes up to a hangover and a throbbing pain in his ass that keeps him in bed for close to an hour.

He finds some blood in his underwear, and he nearly faints at the sight. He’s not usually too squeamish over blood, but there’s something very different between a scraped knee and a bleeding arse. He remembers enough to know the cause - Chris fucking him with cheap, perfumey lotion that he wouldn’t even use on his hands.

He spits up into the toilet afterwards, and then throws his clothes into the wash before his mum gets to them first. She know he’s gay, he had came out to her a few weeks after he had sex with Louis, but as far as she’s concerned, he’s still very much pure and virginal as he can be. He would like to keep it that way. The ‘precautionary’ sex-talk he was forced to sit through was awkward enough to endure. His mum and him are quite close, and he’d hate to imagine the sorts of conversation his mother would expect out of him.

He’s so focused on the sex part of the night, that it’s not until he’s pouring his cereal when he remembers his phone conversation with Louis. His gut drops, suddenly feeling like he needs to throw up again. He’s not sure what Louis was trying to accomplish in it, because as far as Harry’s concerned, nothing was. Harry doesn’t even entertain the possibility of Louis calling him again while sober. He’d only be setting himself up for disappointment.

Harry doesn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the break, spending the time with his mum instead. They go shopping two days in a row, and find trendy cafes along the high street. They even take a daytrip to London. Harry loves his mum, never much went through his ‘embarrassed of his mother’ phase, mostly because his friends were always going off about how she was the coolest and a total MILF. Harry isn’t too fond of the latter, but it gives him much less reason to be embarrassed. On the other end of the parent scale, he doesn’t see his dad much. As a kid he visited him for holidays and summer break in Germany, but over the years it’s dwindled to monthly phone calls and birthday cards in the mail. He doesn’t find himself too upset over it, maybe it’s just denial, but his mother remarried when he was barely ten so his stepfather, Robin, has basically taken over that role anyway.

Once school starts he tries his very best not to treat Zayn differently. He knows it’s not Zayn's fault that Louis has been ignoring him for the better part of the school year for reasons unbeknownst to him. It’s not his fault, that for some reason, Louis will only see him. Yet, seeing as taking out his hurt and anger on the rightful person is very much not an option, Zayn is the closest to. Zayn didn’t even bother to tell him that Louis was back, never mind that he saw him. Harry has to wonder how many other visits Zayn kept secret.

Zayn catches on pretty quickly, pulling him off to the side on Wednesday after lunch. “Can we talk?” he asks, almost sheepishly. Liam and Niall are waiting for him to walk to maths, but Harry waves them off.

“Did I do something?” he asks once Harry turns to face him again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, eyes wide like a puppy.

It’s too much for Harry to resist, so he just smiles and shakes his head.  “No, Zayn. I’m sorry. I’ve just felt so out of sorts lately.” It’s not a lie, not quite.

Zayn sighs, looking down at his feet that he shuffles along the linoleum. Before this year, Zayn and Harry had never been the closest out of the five of them. They had gotten along fine - they all did - but there was always this weird tension between them. They all knew it had to do with Louis, the awkward friendship triangle they had found themselves in. With time, the initial jealous tension had dissipated, but there was always this unspoken agreement that there was Louis and Zayn, and then LouisandHarry. It felt weird and a bit too complicated to cross over any more. Since Louis had disappeared though, Harry has found that they have gotten closer.  

None of the lads know exactly what happened between Louis and him - and as far as he knows, this includes Zayn - but they’d have to be blind not to notice the way Harry had gotten even quieter, and Louis became silent. At first, they asked just like Harry called, and called, and called, but with time it also stopped. Harry’s not sure if it was because they lost interested or if it was because of the way he shrunk into himself a little more with every mention. The odd times Harry has brought up Louis on his own, it’s been to Zayn and only him. Because even though they don’t talk about The Night, or how Louis has seemingly dropped off the Doncaster map, Zayn has always managed to provide him with unspeakable comfort. Up until Louis’ call, Harry wasn’t sure that Zayn had anymore contact with Louis than he had, but even though he hated to admit it, he had figured as much. To Harry, Zayn was the closest thing he had to Louis now.

“Look, Harry,” Zayn says, and when he looks up, his warm eyes meet Harry’s directly. “Louis told me that he called you.”

Harry freezes, doesn’t even blink. He’s become a professional at willing any trace of emotion off his face.

“I know that you know that he was here, and that I saw him. And, correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, slowly, as if toeing around a landmine, “but I get the feeling that maybe that’s what this is about?”

Harry hugs his arms into his chest, gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t care about that,” he says, but the shake in his voice betrays him

A silence falls between them, Harry watching the dozen pairs of feet that rush past them.

Zayn says, “I don’t know what exactly happened between you two. Which I think that’s probably a good thing, because I’d probably hate him too. But, I just think that you should know that he does care. In his weird, fucked up way.”

“Let me guess,” Harry says, dryly. “He asked you to tell me that?”

“No. No, I swear. He didn’t say anything, but I know. You might not believe me and I don’t expect you to, but as someone who’s known Louis since he was still shitting in his diapers, I know. He still asks about you, all the time. He hurts too, I can hear it in his voice.”

Harry scoffs. He unfolds his arms from his chest, picks himself up, dusts off the dirt collecting in his ribcage. “That’s bullshit. He’s the one that stopped talking to me. He has no reason to be hurt.”

“I know, I know. I never said he isn’t a shit, because he definitely is. A giant one. And even though he’s my best mate, from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t even deserve your forgiveness. But, you know him as well as I do, possibly even better at this point. You know how he gets. You know all the shit and drama he creates in that brain of his. You know half his motives are based off some make-believe possibility of some event in the distant future.”

Harry can’t help but snort. Zayn is right. Louis’ anxiety was one of his biggest downfalls. So many, if not all, of their falling outs had been caused by something that wasn’t even real; it was all Louis’ imagination running ahead of him once again, spinning this fabricated tale of something that hadn’t even happened. Initially, Harry had a suspicion that all of this was just Louis’ brain sabotaging him once more. That’s what he kept telling himself in that first month, but there comes a point where that can no longer count as an excuse. There came a point where Louis should’ve taken responsibility for the fact that he handled it horribly, that he was a total twat for ‘fucking and chucking’ his so-called best mate.

“See, you know.” Zayn smiles gingerly, nudging his arm.

Harry lets out a long breath of air that he didn’t realize he was holding.  He runs a hand through his fringe, making sure to push it out of his eyes as he says, “Zayn, look, you’re right. I’m sorry for taking it out on you. That was just me being a kid, but - I don’t care anymore. At least, I don’t want to. This is too exhausting, and honestly, I’m getting quite tired of it. Louis has his life and I have mine, and I think it’s time that we all accept that there is no more ‘us.’ Some people are only meant to be friends for a season, and I think that ours has come to an end. It’s time to let it go, I think.”

Zayn sighs, but nods just barely, expression darkened. “If that’s what you really think, then I support you.”

The funny thing is, Harry’s not quite sure what the other option is, besides continuing to mope and pine after him for another five months. The way he sees it, it’s either that or he picks himself up and gets over it. He tried to do his part - even more than - and he got shutdown. Louis calling him drunk on New Year’s didn’t do much but give him a false sense of hope, and then just make him more angry and desperate to move on.

“I do,” he says, and he almost believes it himself.

Zayn’s still looking at him with sad eyes when he pulls Harry into a hug, squeezing him hard. “Okay. Well, you know I’m always here, yeah?”

“I know,” he says, voice muffled into Zayn’s jacket.

When he pulls back, he keeps his hands on Harry’s shoulder. He looks him square in the eye, and smiles. “Love you, mate.”

“Love you too,” Harry says, and can’t help the mushy smile that tugs on his mouth. He’s thankful that even though he was the one left back and heartbroken, at least he was left back with the three best mates he could ask for. And maybe, that’s enough.

*

Harry downloads _Grindr_ onto his phone without really knowing why, seeing as he’s still getting fucked in the backseat of Chris’ car almost daily - and, he can say with full certainty, that it’s gotten a lot better since the first.

Harry gets contacted quite a bit in the first few days, but he doesn’t reply to any of them. A few of them had even been fit and within his age range, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. By the fourth day, he’s considering deleting the entire thing, when Nick contacts him. He’s not quite sure why he decides that Nick will be the one he replies to, but he does. He’s older - like, almost ten years older - but Harry likes his smile, likes that his clothes are on in his pictures, likes that the one sexy picture is so exaggerated that it’s ironic.

They meet in a pub and share a pitcher. Nick’s funny, and he makes Harry laugh in a way that he hasn’t since Louis. Nick asks if he’s legal at least five times before asking him back to his place, and Harry doesn’t even consider, just agrees.

Nick lives in a large flat, trendy with unpolished hardwood floors and white furniture. He tells him he’s on the radio, and Harry places his voice as the one on the morning show his mum sometimes listens to.

He fucks him on the bed, which is a treat to Harry, who’s become more familiar with the backseat of Chris’ car than his own. They take a break to eat leftover Indian before they go back to it again, and again. Harry takes it all in, every position, every trick. Chris and him have never moved much past missionary, and Harry’s not all too convinced it’s just because of the space they’re given. Harry rode him once, and even that seemed risqué. But, with Nick, it’s fun and new and exciting, and Harry almost treats it as a class - although, considerably more enjoyable than any he’s ever had before. Nick keeps telling him that he’s gorgeous, a nearly underage treat, and Harry basks in it all. Compliments are not something him and Chris had ever picked up on much.

By the time they finish for good, it’s nearly five A.M. Maybe it’s Harry naiveté, but seeing as he just spent close to five hours having sex with a bloke, he expects the welcome to spend the night. At least get offered a shower. But then Nick’s getting up, collecting a fresh pair of briefs from his dresser and slipping them on. He grabs Harry’s pants and shirt on the floor next to his feet, and tosses them to him.

He blinks up at him from the bed, not sure what to do.

Nick chuckles to himself once it dawns on him, stroking his chin as if he’s considering the best way to break this to Harry. “Shit, you’ve never done this before, have you.” Harry gets the idea that it’s not a question, as he laughs under his breath again, shaking his head. “Kid, look, I’ve got a boyfriend. A boyfriend that lives here, actually.”

All Harry can do is stare up at him, mouth shaped into an ‘o.’ As it sinks in, he’s scrambling off the bed, face red as he pulls on his clothes as quickly as he can.

He avoids Nick’s eyes until they’re at the door. Nick crowds him against the doorframe, pinching Harry’s chin with the space between his thumb and index, like some child. Harry certainly feels like one, anyway. “Sorry, kid,” Nick says, but Harry doesn’t think he is. “I had fun though. You’re quite the energetic one. It’s been awhile.”

All Harry can do is nod, humming under his breath, and he lets Nick kiss him once more because it’s not like he can really be mad. Nick didn’t promise him anything else and Harry should’ve known that you don’t just go back to a strangers house to shag, and then wake up to eggs on toast in bed the next day. It’s his fault for being naïve.

Nick lives in the neighbourhood next to Harry’s, and he estimates the walk will be at least a half an hour, but he has no cash to call a cab. He’s tired and sore and feels like a total mess, smelling like sweat and covered in cum. He’s thankful that the streets are dead, and he’s able to make it home without being seen.

Once home, Harry has to tiptoe to his room, stepping over the floorboards that he knows creak. He has no choice but to avoid the shower, and clean PJ’s don't make him feel even a morsel better. There’s dried cum on his stomach, on his ass, his fucking hair and cheek.

In bed, he bunches his comforter into his chest. He doesn’t fall asleep until he hears Robin up, coughing and rummaging around in the kitchen.

*

In the interest of continuing his streak of stupidity, Harry tells Chris about Nick.

He doesn’t see why it would be a big deal, considering it’s no secret that Chris has fucked around with his share of girls. In the six months that they’ve been doing whatever it is that they’re doing, Chris has had two girlfriends. Yes, it’s annoying, and sometimes Harry’s found himself feeling something that’s a lot like jealousy, but it’s nothing he’s freaked out over. In fact, Harry doesn’t even bother acknowledging it anymore. The only reason he knows what goes on between Chris and the string of ever-changing girls is from what he sees in the hallway and hears whispered in classrooms.

Yet, Chris does freak out. He yells into the air and at Harry. Some of it hurts, stabbing words directed straight at him, about how he’s a slut, that all he’s good for is sex and one night stands. Harry thinks that’s a bit ridiculous of him to say, unless there’s such a thing as six month long one night stands. He knows Chris is just angry, just spewing angry words that really have no basis, but it hurts nonetheless.

Harry manages to appease him by crawling onto his lap, and pulling the seat back. He undoes Chris’ pants, and shimmies down the seat, licking his tongue from his head to his balls, teasingly. He does that till Chris is rock-hard underneath him, his hands pulling at Harry’s curls, insults now melted into incoherent moans.

Harry sits back up, awkwardly situating himself to pull off his trousers. He thinks he might accidentally knock Chris in the face in the process, but he isn’t given the chance to get angry again before Harry is doing the next stupid thing. He arranges himself back on Chris’ lap, and grabs a hold of him, guiding it into himself. They’ve never once did it without a condom, and have used proper lube ever since the first time. Chris doesn’t stop him though, just grabs onto his hips and digs in with his nails until Harry’s sure he drew blood.

It hurts like hell, more than his first time, and from what he can recall from lotion ordeal. He feels like he's being ripped in two, but Chris seems to enjoy it, cursing into Harry’s hair, so he bares it, biting onto the hood of Chris’ sweatshirt to stifle out the noise as he rocks into him.

Harry doesn’t come, isn’t even the slightest bit hard by the end of it, but Chris doesn’t seem to care much. As soon as the haze of his orgasm has left him, he’s even angrier, throwing every known form of ‘slut’ at Harry as he scrambles to get his trousers back on. Chris is saying something about how he better have not given him AIDS, but Harry’s tuned him out by then, staring out the window as houses pass them by. He plays the license plate game by himself to keep himself distracted as Chris continues to yell. He thinks that he’s probably bleeding again. He hopes it’s not internal.

Chris doesn’t wait until Harry’s properly out of the car before he’s pulling off down the street. Harry can hear his rap music blaring for at least another block.

He heads straight for his bedroom, ignoring the calls from his mother to come for dinner. He locks his door behind him, and crawls under his covers, hugging them to his chest. He pretends he’s asleep when his mum knocks at his door.

He expects to hear from Chris the next day, or at least the day after. He doesn’t think it’ll take that long before he gives in and Harry finds himself in the backseat of his car again. But, a week passes, then so does another, and he hears nothing. Usually when they passed in the hallways they’d act like they could care less, but there would always be a small glimpse of acknowledgement, only for each other. Now, there’s nothing. It’s as if he’s invisible, and Chris can see right through him. He even goes to get tested, but he ends up clean, so it’s not like he’s mad at him for that. Harry was the one that couldn't go to the toilet for a week.

Harry goes back to spending all his time with Zayn, Niall and Liam, and as usual, he doesn’t say a word about any of it. Harry had came out to them about the same time that he had come out to his parents and sister, but like them, they all think he’s still very much a virgin. Although he knows they have their hunches about what really happened between Louis and him. It’s not that he thinks they’d care. All three of them had lost their virginity in the past year as well, and he knows it doesn’t matter to any of them that he’s gay. He’s just not too particularly proud over any of his sexual experiences yet. Louis, yes, if it had ended in his favour, but it was embarrassing enough that they were all there to witness the aftermath. He doesn’t think he needs to let them in on any more details.

Two weeks before school ends, Harry decides to walk home instead of taking transit. It’s quite the long trek, but it’s a beautiful day, one of the first of summer.

He’s barely reached the end of the field when he’s suddenly surrounded by angry faces and yelling. Harry manages to catch ‘faggot’ and ‘fucking fairy.’ His mind all but blanks in fear as he take in the faces, recognizing all four as boys from the football team. He turns and catches Chris on the outskirts of where they circle him. Their eyes catch just for only a moment before Chris is looking away, a scowl on his face as he spits into the grass.

Chris had told him a few times that he was the only one keeping Harry from getting beaten up. He said he’d overhead plenty of guys, mostly on the football team, who were talking about Harry. That he was a faggot, that people like him shouldn’t be contaminating their school. While Harry knew people probably talked about him and his increasingly blatant homosexuality, he always assumed the beating up part was just Chris’ way of threatening him into not telling anyone about them. After all, they’re eighteen for bloody sakes, some of them nineteen, haven’t they passed the age where Harry’s sexuality is a concern for them? He certainly doesn’t give a shit where they put their dicks.

Harry hadn’t made any big announcements, there were no banners or Facebook statuses announcing his sexuality, but he told the people that mattered and didn’t quite care much if other people found out. Maybe it’s his naiveté screwing him over once again, or maybe it’s the fact that he tries to find the best in others, but he never once thought that this was a possible outcome.

As soon as the first hit comes, Harry completely shuts off. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t fight back, doesn’t tell them all about how their macho and very straight friend had his dick up his arse more times than he could count. He just takes it. He figures the quieter he is, the quicker it’ll be done with.

It’s not until he’s on the ground that Chris comes into view again, standing above him. Harry locks eyes with him, tries to silently plead for him to help, but Chris just stares right back and all Harry can see is hatred. He can’t understand how someone who was giggling into his mouth only weeks earlier could now be kicking his side, spitting _faggot_ at him.

He braces himself for more, almost expecting that they’ll keep going. He can see himself in the papers, all over the headlines, like that boy he remembers in the news as a kid, the one who was killed in America for being gay. The thought runs ramped, enough that he’s gagging out of fear. Or maybe it’s just pain; he’s not sure anymore.

But then, Chris is speaking. “Let’s go,“ he says. “We’ve wasted enough time on this fucking poof.”

He gets a kick or two more, but then they’re agreeing. Harry listens to their footsteps retreating, yelling more insults over their shoulder. He stays completely still for what seems like an hour, until he’s absolutely sure that they’re gone.

He manages to hobble a block down the street, entire body aching, when a car pulls up next to him. His entire body seizes in fear, thinking it’s the same boys coming to finish him off. It’s his English teacher, Paul, who gets out of the car, jogging towards him. “Harry, shit, what happened to you?”

Harry turns his head away from him, eyes downcast in shame.

“Come with me. I’ll drive you home.” He wraps a tentative arm around Harry’s waist, helping him to the car. Harry doesn’t say a word, only to give his address.

Paul waits until he’s a block from Harry’s house, before he’s saying, “Harry, I know you’re shaken up right now, but you have to tell me who did this. They can’t get away with this. I’ll make certain that they get severely punished.”

Harry says nothing, just stares out the window, forcing back the tears. He’s never been in a fight in his life. He can count the times he’s even yelled at someone on one hand. He doesn’t even like to kill spiders, and yet here is, bruised and bleeding for something he can’t even control. Harry doesn’t think he’s even spoken to them, none of them except for Chris, and that itself is more painful than the physical bruises that are quickly forming on his skin.

He tries to avoid the side mirror, but he still catches his bloody lip and eyebrow, the purple mark already visible under his right eye.

The last thing he wants to do is talk. All he wants to do is get home to his bed. Sure, the walk would’ve been horrible, but he thinks sitting here and enduring his teacher sneak pitying glances at him is worse.

Paul insists that he walks Harry inside. Harry shrugs off his arm, and hobbles to the door himself. It’s unlocked, which he curses at because it means his mother is already home. He knows he wouldn’t be able to hide it from her forever, probably not even a full day, but at least he could have tonight.

“Harry, is that you, honey?” she calls from the kitchen when he enters, Paul behind him.

Harry shrugs into himself and says nothing, hoping he’ll disappear.

“Mrs. Styles?” Paul says, as carefully as he can. “It’s Paul Abrams. I’m your son’s teacher.”

His mum appears at the landing in seconds, alarmed.

Harry turns himself into the wall, attempting to hide the damage.

“What’s going on? What happened?” she asks, and Harry can hear the panic in her voice already. He hasn’t heard that voice on her since Gemma was sixteen and didn’t come home from a party on time. It takes only a moment for him to hear her gasp, and then her footsteps pounding down the staircase. She grabs a hold of him, and pulls him into her chest. It hurts, and he’s taller than her now, but he crouches anyway, sinking into it. “Harry, oh my god, baby, what happened? Who did this?”

Harry doesn’t answer, just clings to her blouse, getting blood all over it. He breathes in her perfume, and pictures himself as a little boy again, sick while she cuddled him.

“I didn’t see what happened,” Paul says for him. “I just drove by and saw him trying to walk down the street.”

Harry can feel her nod as she runs a soothing hand through his hair.

“But please, I ask that you inform the school on who did this as soon as you can. They will be punished.”

His mum manages to thank him, voice still shaken. Paul says goodbye, tells Harry he’ll be thinking of him, and then the door shuts behind him.

She hugs him there for a minute longer, fingers carding through his curls, before leading him into the bathroom to clean up. She murmurs things about her baby, her little boy, and he lets her even though he’s eighteen now, so far from being that little boy she once knew.

Harry keeps focus on the bath curtain, counting the petals until he loses track. He doesn’t want to see his mothers eyes, laced with concern and tears. He makes it until she’s done cleaning up the cut on his eyebrow, before finally bursting out into sobs.

“Harry, sweetheart.” She lets him cry for five minutes, alternating between rubbing his back and playing with his hair. Once his cries have dwindled into hiccups, she says, “I will tell you this, Harry. In all twenty years of motherhood, I have never wanted to kill someone so strongly. And you know how many absolute twats Gemma has brought around over the years.”

Harry can’t help but laugh. He has to stop though due to the shooting pain in his stomach.

She finishes cleaning him up, and orders him to get changed while she makes tea and sets up a bed on the couch.

He cuddles with her for the rest of the night, watching re-runs of _The Office_ , before settling on an awful but entertaining, American movie starring Jennifer Lopez. It’s stupid, but somehow it makes him feel better.

He curls into her shoulder and thinks about how much he’ll miss her once he’s gone next year.

  



	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairing:** louis tomlinson/omc (main: louis tomlinson/harry styles)  
>  thanks to kara (decisionsandrevisions) for proofing and being all around wonderful.

_ iii. Louis _

By the time Louis arrives at the party, everyone’s already pleasantly drunk, the New Year fastly approaching.

He finds himself pulled along from person to person, all faces he hasn’t seen in nearly two years. They all hug him like he’s their long, lost best mate, and he manages to cut the small talk to a minimum (“Yes, I go to Oxford. Yes, it’s great. Yes, I’m going to be a doctor. No, I haven’t seen a human brain yet. And no, I’m not qualified to know if that’s skin cancer on your tit.”). It helps that alcohol is on his side, and that most of them become distracted after a few minutes and wander off. He’s really only concerned about one person, and that one person is nowhere to be found.

He asks Zayn, but he shrugs, apologetically. “He was here, mate, but I haven’t seen him in awhile. He might’ve left. I don’t know.”

Louis curses his luck, before he’s swindled into even more drunken small talk. He didn’t particularly care for these people when he went to school with them, and he certainly doesn’t care any more now. That might make him a prick, but he doesn’t care about that either.

He chats with the lads for awhile, but with time they dwindle in numbers, disappearing to be with their girlfriends.

Harry is still nowhere to be seen. Louis’ almost ready to give up and head home to ring in the New Year’s with his mum, her new boyfriend and the twins.

He goes to find the toilet, but the first door he opens turns out to be a bedroom. Someone’s on the bed, and he instantly apologises, backing out. As he’s closing the door, his eyes catch on a familiar head of curls. When the person turns to face him, it’s Harry’s face that stares back at him.

In that single moment, Louis feels all blood and common sense sink to his feet. He can hardly believe that this is the first time seeing Harry in sixteen months.

He certainly looks good. His hair is styled differently, curls pushed out of his face, revealing the beautiful emerald in his eyes that Louis can see from across the room. They look just as he remembered them. He appears older, jawline stronger, and even though he’s sprawled across the bed, Louis can tell that he’s grown. He’s taller now, lines of his body longer and slimmer. He raises an eyebrow, beer cradled at his side and book in hand.

He looks surprisingly calm, and Louis’ mouth goes dry.

“Um, hey,” Louis finally says, scratching behind his ear.

“Hi.” Harry looks at him for no more than a moment before turning back to his book, as if Louis’ presence is no more than a mere inconvenience that should now immediately vacate.

Louis considers doing just that, shutting the door and pretending none of this happened. But, Louis’ been waiting a long time to see him again, to talk to him face to face, and it’s not until now that he’s been able to muster the courage. He doesn’t want to wait another two years. It’s not that he expected Harry would be thrilled to see him. If Louis’ attempt at a phone call in October was any indication as to how it would go tonight, Harry should’ve thrown his book at him already. Maybe, he thinks, this is a start.

“Can I, uh - Can I come in?”

He sighs, shutting his book in aggravation, and places it at his side. He blinks up at Louis like he’s responsible for ruining his entire night - maybe 2013 all together. Considering he’s reading a book alone on New Year’s Eve, Louis doesn’t take it quite so seriously. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find me.” Not even a slight twitch on his expression leaves Louis to think he’s teasing.

“You still hate me that much, huh?” He laughs, trying to make light of the situation, but Harry stares at him blankly. Louis sighs, and inches into the room, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. “You look good,” he offers, hovering at the end of the bed, next to Harry’s feet.

“Thanks,” he says, flatly. “You look different. What’s with your hair?”

Louis reaches up to touch his quiff. He’s been trying it out for a few months now, but he’s never felt self-conscious over it until now. He shrugs. “Something different, I guess.”

Harry hums under his breath. Silence falls between them, and Louis allows himself the moment to take Harry in now that he’s closer. He’s definitely skinnier, more stylish too, with vintage boots and a _Ramones_ t-shirt. His jeans are plain black, but they’re a perfect fit, hugging to his thin, but fit, legs. He’s shaved, but Louis can see the fuzzy patch of skin above his lip, something that wasn’t there when he was seventeen. Harry had always been gorgeous to him, even as an awkward teenager, but now he looks absolutely stunning, and Louis doesn’t know how to look away.

“So, what are you doing here?” Harry eventually asks. Louis snaps his eyes away from where he was staring, but Harry seems to have noticed anyway, because a smirk tugs on his lips.

“I just thought that - I don’t know. That we could talk. Catch up. Maybe sort some things out…” He shrugs, heart palpitating against his ribcage. He hasn’t felt this stupid in a very, very long time. The way Harry is staring at him like he is no more than an irritating presence that he must endure, makes it no better.

“I meant here, at the party, in general.”

Louis’ cheeks heat, feeling even more stupid. He deserves this. Deserves every blank, annoyed stare from Harry. He deserves even more, he knows that. He should be thankful, if anything, because he’s gotten hell of a lot further than he had when he called him. He had barely gotten out an ‘I’m sorry’ before Harry was telling him to fuck off, and hanging up.

“Oh - I don’t know. Why not?” he says in a lame attempt.

“Because you haven’t bothered in a year and a half,” he spits out, venomously. For a moment, Louis almost feels relieved, because at last there is emotion.

“I - ” he flounders, fumbling for the right words. He comes up with nothing, so he opts for snapping his mouth shut, and nods. “You’re right. I don’t know why I’m here,” he says eventually. “I guess - I guess it’s just to see you.”

Harry’s expression flickers, but it’s so quick that Louis doesn’t catch what it is. He sits up, back against the headboard, pulling his legs to his chest. “Why?” he asks, eyes level with Louis’.

“Because - ” Louis takes a seat on the edge of the bed, cautious, as if Harry might boot him. He takes a deep breath, scans his gaze across Harry’s, and says, “Well, because I missed you.”

“You’re lying,” Harry says. Louis can tell he meant for it to come out flat, unaffected, but the rise in his voice betrays him.

“I’m not lying.”

Harry’s mouth twitches together, and he only stares. Louis can see a flash of something harsh in his eyes, and he can’t help but curl into himself under the scrutiny, pulling his sleeves over his hands. Once the silence drags on for longer than a minute, Louis brings them to his mouth, nibbling until he creates a small hole in the fabric. It _was_ his favourite sweater.

“How’s school going?” Harry asks, and Louis has to do a double-take because that was the last thing he was expecting.

“Good,” he says, almost warily. He feels like he’s walking on a very tight rope; the smallest movement in the wrong direction, and he’d wind up right back on the ground. “Hard, and busy. But good.” 

“Make a lot of friends?”

“A few. They’re cool, but they’re not like you guys,” he says, honestly.

Harry jerks out a stiff nod, but says nothing else. Louis tries to search for some familiar light in his eyes, and he thinks he might catch a glimpse, but it’s gone before he can know for certain.

“Mum told me you moved to London,” Louis says. “That’s big.”

“Yup, skipped my final year. Best decision I ever made.”

“Cool, yeah, good for you.”

“I’m actually leaving for Amsterdam next week. My - ” He stops, lips pulled together. Louis can see his brain moving, can see it in the way his eyes flicker over his. It’s only a brief pause before he straightens out, squares his shoulder, chest puffing out. “My boyfriend and I are travelling around for a bit.” He makes sure to look Louis straight in the eye as he says it, a hint of accentuation on _my boyfriend._

It shouldn’t affect Louis, but it does, crawling deep under his skin and burning. Of course Harry has a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t he? He’s been in London for six months now, and he looks something between a lovely cherub and a Burberry model. Louis would seriously be questioning the sanity of all gay males in London - Christ, _straight_ even - if they weren’t flocking to him.

“Oh, that’s - awesome,” he tries, but it falls flat.

Harry hums again, and he watches Louis tentatively as he wraps a curl around his finger. His gaze runs across Louis’ face, doesn’t even try to hide it, and Louis has to force himself not to look away, blushing.

“Why are you up here, anyway?”

“Just not feeling it. Not really my thing.”

“From what I recall, you were the one begging me to go to parties with you.” Louis smiles hoping to get one in return, but it does the opposite, Harry’s expression dropping into a glower. And there it is. Louis became a bit too confident, a little too reckless, and ended flat on the ground, tight rope laughing above.

“Well, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” he says, sourly.

Sighing, Louis drops his hands to his lap, digging his fingers into his thighs. “Harry,” he says, carefully, keeping his eyes trained to his lap. “I know this probably isn’t going to mean anything to you, but I’m sorry. I truly am. What I did was shitty, beyond, and I have no excuses besides I was young and stupid and scared. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I shouldn’t have even expected that you’d look at me, let alone talk to me.”

When he looks back to Harry, he spots a glimpse of light, a shadow of the Harry he once knew. The walls are still up, but maybe, his apology allowed for the smallest crack of a window. “But why? I want to know why you did it.” Louis can even hear the change in his voice, softer, as slight as it may be. He takes it as hope, maybe.

Louis puts his face in his hands, pushing his fingers through the gel. He had thought this over a hundred - no, thousand times. Louis has so many excuses and reasoning’s for what he did, why he did it, that he can’t remember which one makes the most sense, or if any of them do at all. He thinks he might’ve been well-intentioned in the beginning. At least, that’s what he told himself as he shoved Harry’s hand-written letter into the back of his desk drawer, unread and unopened. He was saving them from hurting worse in the future, he told himself, having no idea it had everything to do with fear. Harry had too much of him, Louis had given him nearly all, and Louis had already felt himself suffocating. After a year had passed, Harry was no less on his mind, and with each day, Louis’ reasoning made less and less sense. The longer it went, the harder it was, and all the more unforgivable he became. With time, fear transformed into shame.

After thirteen months of missing him, Louis had gathered enough courage to at least try and apologise, even though he had known it was a futile attempt. He had spent two weeks begging Zayn for his number, only for Harry to hang up on him within seconds. Louis isn’t foolish enough to think that they’ll ever be proper mates again, or that he deserves to ever be forgiven, but that doesn’t mean he won’t stop trying. Even if Harry will only end up believing a fraction of how sorry he is, at least it’s something.

Louis doesn’t know how to put this all into words though, to say it while Harry stares back at him. Once again, all it takes is one look at Harry and all his meticulous planning is thrown out the window. “I honestly don’t know what to say to you. Anything I can think of just sounds like bullshit. It doesn’t make it okay. I was just scared, so I ran away like the child that I was. Shit, that I _still_ am.”

It’s stupid of Louis to think that that could possibly be enough to appease Harry. He only continues to stare, and blink, and wait for more.

Louis chews on his lip, and takes a moment to collect the courage, hidden in empty spaces inside his chest. “It’s just that, things were so charged and intense between us. I mean, obviously, but I just thought that if we were apart for a bit, that maybe we could go back to being best mates, without all of that.” He makes a sweeping motion with his hand as if that will explain all the things he can’t say. “I just - we were so young. I didn’t know what to do. Shit, you were only seventeen and I was going to school, and - I mean, what really could’ve happened?”

Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes, eyes flashing with something fierce. “That’s the stupidest fucking excuse I have ever heard. You think you could’ve come up with something better than that in the past year and a half.”

Louis gulps, then stares, willing his heart to not come ricocheting out of his ribs. He doesn’t have to say anything because Harry is continuing, voice a flurry of emotions. “And even if we were in some fucked up universe where that would be a reasonable excuse, you think that maybe you could’ve informed me on this plan, instead of leaving me to wonder what I did? Thinking that maybe I had done something wrong? When all along it was just you being a selfish fucking prick?”

“I told you, I didn’t handle it properly,” Louis manages to force out through the seizing in his throat. “I told you it sounded like bullshit,”

“Because it is bullshit, Louis,” he snaps. “And what makes you so stuck on us being ‘best mates’ anyway? We were never _just_ mates, even before we fucked. I don’t get why you’re so against us being more. Why did you have to make it into a bad thing? You’re gay, I’m gay. Did you just not love me? Is that what it is? You could fuck me, but you didn’t actually want to be with me?”

“Of course I loved you - ”

 _I still do_ , he thinks. _Pathetic._

“Then what the _hell_ , Louis.”  

Louis wants to back up. He wants to press rewind, and bring himself to the moment before he opened the door. He wishes he never saw Harry, wishes he never came to talk to him, wishes he never came to this stupid party. Maybe that he had never called him in October. If there is one thing Louis has learned very clearly in the past year, it’s that you can’t erase time. You can’t go back and fix something, no matter how much you try and hope for it. One word, one action, can alter your life forever.

This is going all wrong, it’s coming out all wrong, slipping further and further from his grip. He can see an end to this, looming before him like a bad dream, so much worse than it already was. He doesn’t know where to go from this, has no clue what to say to possibly save this. He feels lost, a little dizzy, like the room is closing in on him.

“What did you think would happen?” Louis says without really thinking, and that’s the flame that sets off the rest as he sputters on. “So, what? What if we were together? Then what, Harry? I would’ve been miles away in Uni. I’d be busy. We’d hardly see each other. And what if you found someone else? What if you decided it wasn’t worth it anymore? Where would I be if you left? Who would I be?” Louis is panicking now, heart pounding so rapidly inside his chest that he’s scared it might give out. He needs to walk away now, walk away before this all explodes, before he says too much. He can’t stop though, he’s already too far in. His mind is all over the place, trying to focus on Harry, trying to focus on not crying. He’s thinking of his parents, thinks of how they were high school sweethearts. He remembers them kissing, dancing in the living room, giggling as they chased each other around the backyard with snowballs in hand. That was love, and Louis remembers thinking that all he wanted was to find a love like that. But then, something changed. Suddenly, it was silence at the dinner table, screaming and smashing of plates as he hid under his sheets with his sister. He remembers his dad packing up the car, hugging Lottie, then him. He remembers him saying, _I’ll see you soon_ , big guy. Louis remembers never seeing him again.

Louis swallows, furrows his eyebrows to stop the tears. His voice cracks as he continues, “Because you would’ve. Eventually, it would’ve ended. You would’ve realized. At least, there was some hope, that maybe as my best mate you’d stick around a bit longer.”

“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense because you threw that away too.” Harry’s practically yelling now, fingers dug into the comforter. His eyes are certainly alive now, but it’s not much comfort to Louis, as they’re also wet too, lined with tears. “Christ, so what you’re saying is that _you_ didn’t want to end up hurt, so it was better to hurt me first?”

“No, Harry, that’s not - ”

Harry’s jaw is clenched tight, head shaking in anger. Louis catches a single tear falling from Harry’s eye before he’s swiping it away, and stands up. “You were right about one thing, you are a fucking child.” He yanks open the door, the countdown flooding in from downstairs. “You know,” he says, in an afterthought, voice calmer but no less bitter, “I may have been young, but I never doubted for a second that I would’ve loved you for the rest of my life.”

The words stab at Louis’ chest, his gut, and he can do nothing but stare down at his hands, hanging limply at his sides. “Happy New Years!” erupts from downstairs.

“See you around, Lou,” he says, and then he’s gone.

*

The first few months of Uni were lonely. It was strange for him to not always have friends around; to be living with a hairy man who grumbled more than he talked, as opposed to his giggling sisters. It was strange that he could so easily disappear into the sea of students without anybody noticing. Not even his professors knew his name.

Since going home was off limits, Louis had spent most of his time in the library, or on the phone with his mum and sisters, trying very hard not to think about Harry. He failed, almost always. It didn’t help that Harry still called daily, inbox lined with texts.

Just when Louis began to give up hope on making any friends, he met Rebecca a few weeks before the Christmas break. It was in a café on campus, where they had bonded over the music playing - John Mayer, one of Harry’s favourites. Louis had taken to listening to most of his favourites, warming to them himself. He wasn’t sure if it’s because he no longer had to pretend to hate them just to bug Harry, or if it was because it filled a small space in the gaping Harry-shaped hole.

Becs was also the first person he came out to, after worrying for an entire month that she might think their friendship was leading to more. He had spent an hour trying to figure the best way to say it, when he ended up just blurting it out over homework in a very simple, yet effective, “Becs, I’m gay,” in which, she had blinked, and said, “I know.” And, that was that.

It was quite simple after that. No one ever seemed too surprised either. Not his mum. Not even Zayn. It left him wondering if everyone had known all along, if it was only his title in secondary that kept people from talking, or even really believing.

Overtime, his and Becs’ group grew, from friends made in classes, to boyfriends and girlfriends and friends of. Their core group is fairly solid now, usually seven of them if one isn’t being eaten by schoolwork. He loves his friends, and he’s quite grateful that he can go out to the pub with an extended number of them and not end the night wanting to kill the majority, but. But, he wasn’t lying when he told Harry that they weren’t the lads. While it’s been nice to have girl friends, to get close and not worry about boundaries or overstepping the line, it doesn’t make up for Harry. With every person he meets, it becomes painfully more apparent that he mucked up and threw away something wholly irreplaceable.

William joined their group in late October of this year, invited by Maggie to one of their dinner parties - he says dinner party loosely, as it usually consists of no more than a few store-bought pizzas, baked goodies and beer.

Louis can’t say there was some instant spark between them, but Louis’ remembers seeing him for the first time. Remembers spotting him across the room with his tousled blonde hair and perfectly tailored polo shirt, and thinking, _huh_. He can remember, quite clearly, their eyes catching over greasy pieces of pizza more than a few times, and Louis thought, _maybe._ Which was a step, as small as it was, because his thoughts had been so clouded with Harry that even a maybe hadn’t been an option in a long time. In fact, Louis’ not sure it ever has. He can’t recall a time when his thoughts weren’t entangled in Harry.

William began turning up more and more after that, and they bonded over silly things like Louis’ middle name also being William, and their peculiar love for Nutella on celery sticks. They became mates quite quickly, William spread like a book before him. He reminds Louis of Harry in that sense, so open and allowing Louis to read the pages of his brain whenever he so chooses.

Louis knows William’s hopes and dreams - nothing extravagant, just a nice, humble home with a family who stayed home on Friday nights to play board games. A secondary literature teacher would do, but he would love to be the department head and map out the course load. His fears - to disappoint his parents, that he’ll never amount to anything. Also, wasps, even more than spiders. He tells Louis all about growing up in rural Sussex, to be the only child in a well-off deeply religious family. He was spoiled, he admits, but it came with a price, to follow the narrow path his parents had set out for him. The first time he had ever disappointed them was when he came to Oxford, instead of bible college where they wanted him to be a minister. With time they came to accept him wanting to be an educator, and now pay for his full tuiton and expansive flat, which even has it’s own bathroom and kitchen, a luxury in student life.

Yet, as open as he is, Louis can't help but feel that there's one chapter closed off, one that he's forbidden to read. Louis has an idea as to what it is. Because while Louis knows a lot about William, William is just as fascinated with him, always probing. He seems particularly interested in Louis’ coming out, his life in secondary. Although he plays it off as casual and blasé, over cups of watered down hot chocolate or chemistry papers, he’ll always ask if he had his eye on anyone, if there's anyone back home. Louis, on the other hand, is not an open book and keeps Harry to himself, close to his chest.

William is also always in Louis’ space. He'll often linger, until it's as if he's burnt by some invisible force and pulls back with a bothered expression. As expected, he's more grabby while drunk, hands on Louis' elbows or wrist or waist, giggling into his shoulders. Louis noticed the way his eyes flash with something hot every time Louis so much as talks to another bloke for too long, even if it was only a friend’s boyfriend.

At first, Louis was hesitant to peg him as gay, not wanting it to be his eagerness of finding someone with the same likeness for blokes as him. He didn’t want to jump the gun just because he hadn’t been laid in over a year and a half, and incidentally, was becoming quite desperate for it. Louis knows for certain now, has stored it all up inside. He can hardly act on it though, always careful not to move too quickly or too boldly, and send William skidding away. He waits and watches as the periods in which William comes into his space and then pulls away become longer and more frequent.

He sees William as this stray cat - albeit, a fluffy and adorable one - so lost and scared and confused. He often wonders, as he tiptoes towards William with palms flat, if this is what it feels like with him sometimes. If Harry was the patient and gentle one, scared to make any sudden movements, in case Louis might flee.

For St. Patrick’s Day, they celebrate with their friends at a pub off campus. Louis gets drunk off green ale, but William is worse. He spends most of the night hanging off Louis’ arm and talking about finding a pot of gold so they can buy a theme park (“No, no,” he says, eyes flashing wildly. “Disneyland!”) Louis can only laugh and shush him, petting his hair.

“Lou, Louis. Hey.” William tugs onto the sleeve of his shirt, trying to get his attention from the karaoke stage. Becs and her boyfriend, Max, are singing a painful rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_ , and Louis is finding it excruciatingly hard to look away. “You’d say we’re best mates, yeah?”

Louis turns to look at him, and William looks back with wide, hopeful eyes. “Oh, yeah. Sure we are,” he says, thankful for the alcohol that keeps William from noticing how unconvincing he sounds.

He still talks to Zayn, although not as often as he should. It reminds him too much of home and his mistakes, even though it’s not brought up anymore. Louis hardly has reason or privilege to consider Harry his best mate, but he finds it nearly impossible to think of it any other way.

“D’awww,” William coos, smushing his face into Louis’ shoulder.

They leave together a little after one, deciding they’re close enough to campus to bypass waiting for a cab, and walk instead. Campus residence has a very distinct feeling; it doesn’t look all that different at first, the same streetlights, the same apartment buildings, but there’s a certain buzz around them that never goes away, no matter the time of day. Louis has come to learn that the streets are never dead, there’s always at least one bleary-eyed student carrying an armful of books, or ones stumbling back from a party.

William is holding onto his arm, mumbling about how he wants to do something, but he can’t. By the time they reach his building, he even begins to recite bible verses, but that freaks Louis out so he tries to shush him while giggling. But that doesn’t work so he splays one hand across William’s mouth.  

William continues, words muffled against Louis’ palm before he shuts up entirely. They’re at his door now, William’s back against the brick wall. Louis doesn’t remove his hand right away, and William just blinks his blue eyes up at him, brightened by alcohol. They’re the same height, Louis even a couple inches taller, which is nice since he suspects Harry might hover over him like a giant now.

William’s mouth moves against his hand, and Louis thinks that he might start with the verses again, but instead hot, silent breaths pour over his palm. They’re close, Louis practically cornering him into the wall, and he knows this is what William wants, this is what he was going off about. Louis’ drunk, but William’s drunker. He knows this is a big deal for him. He doesn’t want to rush it, doesn’t want to ruin it for him.

Louis removes his hand, but doesn’t step back. He attempts to read over William’s eyes for some kind of sign, but the alcohol makes it hard to focus for too long.

William breathes in through his mouth, and then tilts his head up as if daring Louis to kiss him. Louis returns by placing a gentle hand on his neck, thumb against his jaw. If he’s not mistaken, he can feel his quickened pulse against his hand.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks barely over a whisper, worried that if he speaks any louder William will flee into his flat. “I’m not going to do anything unless you tell me to.” They’re barely inches apart now, and all Louis would have to do was tilt his chin just a touch to the left for them to kiss.

William says nothing, just stares at him. Louis thinks he’s never resembled a scared kitten more than he does right now.

Louis runs a thumb along his cheek, then jaw, and just under his mouth in attempt to comfort him. Whether he realizes it or not, Louis can see the way he leans into his touch just barely.

“I can’t,” he finally says, shaky and quiet.

Louis nods, and drops his hand, trying to conceal his disappointment. He told himself he wouldn’t push, that he would hate for William to regret it, and just because he’s drunk and wanting it doesn’t give him an automatic in. Louis promised himself he would never let his lack of self-control mess things up for himself or anyone else again.

“Okay, well, goodnight, Will.” He smiles, and squeezes his side. “I’ll see you later, okay? Make sure you drink lots of water before bed, yeah?” He turns, and barely makes it two steps down the hall, before William’s grabbing a hold of his wrist, yanking him back.

“Wait,” he says with a hint of desperation. “Lou, don’t make me say it.”

Louis looks over him, his drunk, sad and hopeful eyes, and sighs.

“Please,” he says again, and yanks him closer, until their chests bump. “You know. You know, okay. Don’t make me say it.” He’s whining now, so Louis shuts him up by kissing him this time.

Louis’ not sure what he was expecting. Part of him thinks William might punch him in the face after all of that, but William sinks into it instead, fingers digging into Louis’ wrist. Louis’ very purposely does not think about how this is his first kiss in a year and a half.

He could keep on kissing him; kiss him into the wall, kiss him into his bed. Louis’ horny. He’s a twenty-one year old guy who hasn’t had sex in far too long. He’s been wanting it desperately ever since; since the minute it was over, and Harry was still glistening with sweat next to him. Louis’ thought mostly of him, but at this point, he thinks he could take almost anyone. Certainly, _certainly,_ William would be great.

Louis’ been practicing self-control though, so he manages to pull back no longer than a minute in. “I should get going.”

“No. You’re staying over.”

“No, I’m going home,” he says firmly. He kisses William on the cheek, and pats his head. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

William whines under his breath. Louis might even catch him stomp his foot. “But, it’s dark. It’s late, Lou. You could get raped. I don’t want you to get raped.”

Louis laughs, pecking him on the mouth, once, twice more. “I’ll be fine. Sweet dreams. Remember to drink water.”

He pouts. Louis kisses him on the nose, then either side of his mouth until he cracks a smile, giggling. “There we go,” Louis says. He’s not quite sure what drunk William was expecting from him. That they’d just fall asleep in his over-sized bed like they usually do, pushed onto opposite sides of the mattress? Was he expecting more? Louis’ not exactly sure how that would come to be, considering William couldn’t even say he wanted to _kiss_ him.

Louis ends up having to retrieve the key from William’s back pocket. He opens the door for him, practically shoving William inside before he can shoot anymore kitten eyes in his direction. “Go to sleep, Will,” he says, and gives him one last kiss through the space in the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He barely gets a nod from William before he’s heading down the hall, this time successfully. He doesn’t hear his door close, and before he disappears into the staircase, he looks back to see William’s head still poking out of his door.

Louis laughs, waving behind him as he disappears for good. He’s already expecting not to hear from him.

He doesn’t, of course. Louis calls and texts William everyday for a week, and he isn’t at all surprised when all of them go unanswered. It’s a page taken from his own book, after all.

After a week passes, Louis gives up on the phone all together, and heads to his flat. Louis can see the peephole darken, and when the door doesn’t immediately open, he actually thinks William might ignore him in person.  

Then, slowly, as if the door itself is sighing, it’s opening to reveal a slightly dishevelled looking William. For William, who is always well put-together and presentable, that means a small pizza sauce stain on his shirt and greasy hair. “Oh. Hi, Louis,” he says, plastering on a fake smile that’s wrong in all the right places. “I’m sorry I haven’t been answering your texts. I’ve been extremely busy. You know, with midterms and all.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and pushes in past him. He heads straight to the kitchen, taking a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off, and props himself on the counter, looking at William over the bottle.

He remains at the other side of the kitchen, arms wrapped around his stomach, as if in protection. He avoids Louis’ gaze, opting to stare at his sink of dirty dishes.

“So, what’s up?” Louis asks, attempting to remain casual, instead of pissed off like he really, really is.

“Just mid-terms - ”

“You said.”

He bites his lip, and shrugs, eyes catching Louis’ only for a moment.

“So, how long were you planning on avoiding me for?” he says after a sip of his beer.

“I’m not.”

“Quit with the BS, Will. You’re not fooling anyone here,” Louis says, a bit more harshly than intended. He knows he should be easier on him. He knew he’d get freaked out and flee, no matter how long Louis waited. It was written all over him. He knows he should cut him some slack since Louis knows this all too well. But, he also knows if there’s no one there to push, he’ll hide for the rest of his life.

William snaps his mouth shut, cheeks colouring. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he attempts lamely.

“William.”

“I’m not gay.” He sounds so little, so scared, that Louis feels his chest sink and then expand. He wants to get up and hug him, to tell him it’ll be okay, but he fears that it’ll only make him run further.

“Will, it’s okay - ”

He shakes his head, and lifts his hands up as if trying to keep a barrier between them even from feet away. “No, Louis. It’s not, and I’m not.”

“Then why did you kiss me?”

“I - I was drunk.”

“Drinking doesn’t magically make you want to kiss blokes all of a sudden.”

“Louis,” William says, suddenly loud and very serious. He swallows, eyes looking a little more wet than before. Louis just stares back, deadpanned, waiting. “Drop it, okay? I told you I’m not gay. I was pissed. You kissed me, you shouldn’t have. I was drunk.”

“Shit, Will, you wanted me to. You actually wanted me to _stay over_.” He can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“You still shouldn’t have,” William says, stubbornly.

“Okay, you know what? That‘s fine. Whatever.” Louis takes one last swig of his beer, and hops off the counter. “If you want to continue living in your miserable denial, be my guest. But know that I won’t be waiting around.”

Louis catches him swallow once again, before he’s raising his chin in faux-defiance. “Fine,” he splutters out. “That’s fine because I’m not gay. I don’t need you to wait for me. There’s nothing to wait for.”

Louis yanks the door open, and looks to William who hasn’t moved an inch. His chest is still puffed out, but Louis can see fear and panic flash in his eyes. Louis can recognize that from himself too. “Okay, I won’t,” he says, and then shuts the door roughly behind him.

Becs agrees to meet him at the pub even though it’s a Wednesday. He doesn’t tell her what happened between William and him. He sure wants to, but as angry as he is, he knows he can’t do that to William.

He drinks until Becs is looking at him pityingly over her pint.

“What?” Louis says, a bit too harshly.

“I was just thinking that it’s been a long time since you’ve been proper shagged, yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, Lou, relax,” she says, dismissively. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. It’s not your fault, you’re a fit bloke.” She looks over him, thoughtfully, then says a little too cautiously, “You have, you know, had sex before, right?”

The bartender picks that moment to bring another pint, and Louis shoots a glare at Becs. “Yes. Christ, give me a break.” He nods away the bartender with a grimacing smile, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels.

“Well, sorry.” She raises her hands in defence. “You’ve just never told me. It’s not that big of a deal if you haven’t, you know.”

“Well, I _have_.”

“Yes, yes, I see that now.” She smirks, tapping her finger against the glass. “Who was it? Was it here?”

“No. It was right before I left for Uni. It was a mate.” He hopes that’s enough information for her so that she’ll drop it, because he’d much rather talk about his lack of shags over Harry. Anything but Harry. Thinking about that night and how he incidentally fucked it all up still stings.

“A mate? Scandalous.” She leans forward in her chair, eyebrows peaking in interest. No such luck. “So what happened? Was it the distance? Was he in the closet?”

“No, it was just - it wouldn’t work.” He downs half his drink in one gulp, and avoids Becs eyes as he says, “Can we not talk about this? Please?”

“Oh, okay.” She shrugs. “Yeah, sure. So, anyway, the whole point of this was to say that Maggie and I are planning on going to London for a girls weekend. You should come.”

Louis snorts. “I know I’m a bit of a poof, but I’d hardly say I’m a girl, thanks.”

“Stop being such a twat, Louis.” She rolls her eyes. “Just come with us. Girls weekend can be renamed as ‘Let’s Get Louis Laid.’”

“I don’t know, Becs,” he says, hesitantly. He wouldn’t be the last to admit that he’s past due on the whole shagging bit, but he also doesn’t know how down he is to fuck some random stranger at a club.

“Don’t be such a prude,” she says, teasingly.

Louis rolls his eyes, but he keeps it at the back of his mind, considering. It takes him thirty-five minutes and two beers later, before he’s nodding and saying, “Okay, let’s get me laid.”

*

Louis certainly didn’t go to London in hopes of hooking up with a bloke to make William jealous. He’s a grown man after all, not a teenager, but that’s not to say he didn’t feel a thrill of satisfaction when he received a text from him two days after they returned.

_you hooked up with some random in london? seriously?_

The judgement seeps through his phone, but then, ah, there’s the smell of jealousy too. He wonders which one of the girls told him, and how he could pay her back without her noticing. Does this make him a bad person?

_does it matter?_

Louis manages to read an entire page of his textbook before his phone is buzzing with a reply. _didn’t think you were the type to have one night stands._

 _i still don’t see why it should concern you._ He’s being a cocky bastard now, he knows it. He’s not sure if the leftover confidence is from bedding a fit bloke, or if it’s because he’s sick and tired of being gentle and it getting them nowhere. He wants to push William’s buttons, jiggle a few switches, wants to make him _react_. He wants to bury himself so deep into William’s nerves that he has no choice but to let him in. Louis not sure if that makes him romantic, or just a dick.

William’s reply comes faster this time, and it’s exactly what he should’ve expected. just thought you were better than a meaningless romp with a stranger. _do you even know his name?_

Louis would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed, his own blood curling in annoyance. Louis remembers far too many admitted stories of William’s secondary days, back when he drank far too much whiskey and, consequently, ended up with far too many girls. Louis remembers his name - Dylan, an American - and even if he didn’t, at least he had enjoyed it, whereas he doubts William could say the same.

After taking a moment to collect his cool, Louis types out his response. _feel free to continue to insult me, but at least grow a pair and do it in person._

He gets no reply at all this time.

By the time the next afternoon rolls around, Louis’ actually beginning to think that this could be the end of their friendship. However, the thought isn’t given the chance to make a home for too long before there’s a knock on his door, William barging in. He looks right pissed off, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread, like he’s about to enter war. He takes a quick scan of the room to make sure Louis’ dorm-mate isn’t there, and says, “I don’t understand.”

Louis blinks from his bed, school work circled around him like a shelter. “Don’t understand what?”

“You,” he splutters. “If you didn’t like me, then why did you have to kiss me? Was it just some sick joke?”

Louis sighs, massaging his temple. A headache was already forming from four straight hours of studying with no break or food, and he has a feeling it’s about to get even worse. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, if you actually liked me, you wouldn’t have went and shagged some other bloke so soon after,” he says, face completely straight.

Louis actually laughs at that, which he sort of feels bad for since William is staring at him so seriously. But then, he doesn’t at all because he’ll be damned if this is turned into his fault. For once, he is not to blame. “Are you insane? You told me that you weren’t gay, and I told you that I wasn’t waiting around. What did you think that meant?”

“I didn’t think it meant the next fucking day!”

“Of course it did! It could’ve meant the next hour. Why would I wait around even for a minute for someone who claims he’s not even into my gender? That’s a waste of time. Please tell me, William, why would that make sense?”

William’s boldness is fading, Louis can see it in the way he’s slowly shrinking, shoulders caving into his chest. He looks like a young boy, shamed and punished, and Louis suddenly feels bad again. “But, if you liked me…” he tails off, quietly.

“William, I’m saying this in the most loving way - grow up.” His eyes flick to Louis’ just briefly, anger and hurt and confusion flashing across them. Louis doesn’t want to hurt him, but my god, he feels like he’d be hurting him more in the long run if he didn’t say this to him. “That’s not how the world works. Maybe that’s how it worked for you back home. You could get anything you wanted, whenever you wanted it, but out here the world keeps turning whether you’re ready for it or not. It’s not going to be there patiently waiting for you to decide how you feel. No one can tell you what to do or who to be or what to want - not your parents, not me, not your friends, or teachers. It’s all you. And yeah, it’s going to be scary sometimes. And sometimes, what you want is going to go against what everyone has ever told you. And sometimes, you’re going to fuck up. Sometimes it’ll be fixable, and other times it won’t be. Sometimes all you can do is accept and learn, and find out who it makes you. There’s not always going to be someone behind you, pushing you in the right direction, giving you approval and acceptance. Eventually, you have to grow up, and do things on your own. Figure things out on your own, without other people speaking in your ear. And if people don’t like it, then fuck them.”

William only stares while Louis takes a deep breath, filling his lungs back with oxygen. “So yes, William,” he says, after a moment, “I like you. But, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop living my life just because you can’t decide what you want to do with yours.”

The air falls eerily silent, and now it’s only William’s heightened breath between them. His cheeks are flushed, a sharp contrast against where he’s become pale everywhere else.

Louis not sure what to expect next, but they seem to only stare at each other for what seems like hours. Then suddenly, William’s gasping back a breath as if he’s been stuck underwater, and he’s out the door without a word, slamming it behind him.

Louis waits a moment, thinking he might return. When he doesn’t, he goes back to his work knowing he’ll be back. Whether it’s in five minutes, five hours, or five days. He’ll be back, and whether or not Louis likes it, he knows he’ll be here.

*

It takes a day before William’s banging on Louis’ door again. He doesn’t look angry this time. There are bags under his eyes, like he’s spent more time crying then he has sleeping. Louis feels a twinge of guilt, but then William’s crawling onto his bed and over his books until their knees are knocking. He grabs a fistful of Louis’ shirt in both hands, yanking him forward to bury his face in his chest. Louis’ barely able to make out the tiny, “I’m scared, Lou.”

“I know,” he says, soothingly, carding his fingers through his short hair.

He’s expecting tears, but William lifts his head, dry eyes catching Louis’. “No one can know,” he says quietly.

Louis lets his words sink in, then nods without much thought. “I promise,” he says, crossing over William’s heart with his finger. He drops his hand down onto his knee, squeezing in reassurance.

William smiles, small, but it reaches his eyes at least. “Thanks,” he whispers, and kisses him.

*

Louis calls Harry’s house. He’s not quite sure why, and he can’t say he’s expecting anything more than Anne answering and telling him he’s still out on his grand adventure. She sounds pleased, surprised and a little bit annoyed when she hears that it’s him. Louis’ not sure how much she knows, but he assumes not much, as she would’ve hung up on him the second she heard his voice otherwise.

They chat for a bit, catching up, even though she seems to know almost everything already from his own mum. She talks about Harry a bit, but not as much as he hoped for. She tells him he’s still touring around Europe, even though she worries a lot, especially since he’s alone. Louis can’t say he likes the idea of Harry travelling alone either - he’s far too pretty for that - but as selfish as it makes him, he’s happy to hear the boyfriend is gone. She tells him that he doesn’t call nearly as much as he should, but when he does, she will let him know that he called.

They talk for nearly an hour, and even though Louis feels like he’s the one dragging it on, he gets the feeling she doesn’t mind. He thinks that, maybe, she finds the same comfort in him that he finds in her. They’re both without Harry, although it’s hardly the same seeing as Louis is the one that fucked up, whereas Anne is just a mother with a boy who grew up. Still, it’s the closest Louis’ been to Harry in a while, and there’s comfort even though it’s no more than voices bouncing off satellites millions of miles away. She laughs like Harry and it raises up so many memories, making the dull, but seemingly permanent, ache in his chest flare with heat.

He misses him. Misses the laughter and the easiness and the fact that Harry was always there, was always constant. He misses him, and even though it’s mostly the loss of friendship that plagues him, he feels guilty. Like he’s betraying William for even allowing Harry to dance across his mind. He feels guilty for even talking to Anne, and he’s not even sure if that’s valid or not.

Anne is the one to bring the conversation to an end by telling him he better visit her the next time he’s in Doncaster. She says again that she’ll tell Harry he called, but makes no promises that he’ll call back.

Louis hangs up, heart heavy. He doubts himself that he will hear from Harry, but he hopes, anyway.

*

A month later Louis has given up any ounce of hope of hearing from Harry. He’s nearly forgotten about it, too caught up in William, and school, and even more William.

He returns to his dorm for the first time in a week. The plan was to stay the night there, but he ends up only studying for a few hours before stuffing fresh clothes into a bag to head back over to William’s. On his way out, he catches a picture of the Italian seaside sitting amidst crumpled papers and books scattered over his desk.

He grabs it, heart racing with curiosity. He recognizes the handwriting almost immediately. _Ciao from the creators of pizza and everything scrumptious!_ it says, Harry’s name scribbled on the corner. Plain, without even an x next to it. Harry used to sign all his cards with five x’s, and at least one heart. He tries not to let that get to him, tries to focus on the fact that Harry acknowledged his existence. It’s just a stupid postcard, but to Louis, it really does feels like hope.


	4. iv.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairings:** harry styles/omc (mentions: louis tomlinson/omc, main: harry styles/louis tomlinson)
> 
> technically, sebastian is a real person thanks to wikipedia. since i assume most people have no idea who he is (including me) i put OMC. i only wanted a name of a real prince/royal family, so besides the bare minimum of research, that's really all i used.
> 
> this chapter was extra long so it will be split into two parts.

_ iv. harry _

It’s New Year’s Eve in Paris, and Harry is in love.  

He’s been with Sebastian for a month now, but it took him only a week to decide that that didn’t matter. Harry has never experienced something like this, for something so bright and so passionate to appear seemingly out of thin air. All it took was a number scribbled on a napkin leftover by a cute patron at his work, and Harry was completely and utterly consumed. If anyone else were to take Harry on a first date to the Eiffel Tower for twelve euro cocktails, he would’ve laughed in their face. But Harry liked his smile, liked the way his laugh sounded when Harry made lame jokes, liked the crinkles around his eyes, liked the way he held his hand and kissed him in the cold air. Harry liked it so much that they skipped the movie afterward in exchange of going back to Harry’s apartment and making love till dawn. Harry never thought himself much of a romantic, and he’s not sure if it’s due to living in the city of love, or if it really is all Sebastian, but he feels like he’s living right out of a fairytale.

It’s only been a month, but every moment spent in Harry’s bed feels like a lifetime. Harry wants to know everything about him - what makes him tick, what he loves, what he hates, every inch of his body, every freckle, hair and scar. Harry feels raw and open and vulnerable, all for Sebastian to take. Maybe it’s stupid, a mistake that will leave him alone and heartbroken once again, but it feels different with Sebastian. He can feel the passion from his fingertips, radiating from his bones. He can feel it in the way he kisses him, and strokes his belly after sex. Harry isn’t afraid to love him, but maybe he should be.

Earlier in the evening, Harry joined Sebastian and his Notre Dame friends at a popular bar in the Latin Quarter. They made it until an hour before midnight when Sebastian growled in his mouth and pawed at his hips. Harry didn’t need much more convincing before calling them a taxi. He swears he’s spent more time in his bed in this past month than he has anywhere else. If it weren’t for Sebastian going to school, he doubts he would even find it in himself to get up and go to work. He’s barely managing rent, let alone feeding himself. Thankfully, Sebastian always manages to keep Harry’s kitchenette well stocked with all the fresh produce and bread he could ask for.

Harry knows he’s a lovesick puppy. He knows he’s most likely making a fool of himself, that this all has burned too bright too soon, and that it could burn out just as quickly. He feels safe and warm and loved with Sebastian though, more than he has in a long time.

They ring in the New Year’s with Sebastian rocking into him slow and deep, the vibrant buzzing from outside flooding in through the cracked window. “Happy New Year’s, mon chaton.” Sebastian smiles into his mouth.

Harry laughs, breathless, grabbing onto his biceps as he comes.

Sebastian rolls on top of him afterwards, trapping him between the sheets. Harry reaches up to run a hand through his dark hair. “Happy New Year’s, mon chou,” he says.

Sebastian bites his shoulder, muffling a laugh against his skin. “Cabbage? Where’d you get that one?”

“I googled French terms of endearment.”

Sebastian laughs harder, tilting his head up to catch Harry’s mouth in a kiss. “Love you,” he says, fondly.

Harry squeezes his hip, and kisses his nose. “Love you too.”

Harry stays awake long after Sebastian falls asleep, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. Eventually, he rolls over to press a kiss to his cheek and gets up, careful not to shake the bed and wake him.

He slips on a pair of sweats and a sweater that he’s not certain is his or Sebastian’s. He collects his phone before sneaking out of the apartment door, shutting it quietly behind him. He heads down the dimly lit hall and jiggles the exit door handle, heading up the stairs to the roof.

He takes a seat on one of the flimsy metal chairs that overlooks the lit Parisian street below. On especially clear nights, he’s able to see the bare outline of the Eiffel tower from here, but the air is too clouded with cold and excitement to see it tonight. It doesn’t matter to Harry though, he’s fallen in love with every part of Paris even without it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever leave, even if that means having to stay here, in a place so small and rundown it hardly seems fair to call it an apartment. He doesn’t even have his own toilet - he has to share it with two other people on his floor. He loves it anyway. He likes to think it gives him character.

Harry has been to a lot of different places over the past year, and he’s not one to deny that he’s fallen in love with a lot of them, but Paris hit him hard. He had been travelling around for nearly a year, and after a particularly wild time in Berlin he decided to finally return to Doncaster. He was home for only a month before packing up his bags and moving to Paris, much to his mother’s dismay. It had been the right choice, after all; it lead him to Sebastian.

Harry’s not even sure why he does it. There’s no reason to with Sebastian asleep in his bed, his own chest heavy with adoration and infatuation, but he dials Louis’ number, fingers gripping the rusty chair arm.  

He hasn’t seen Louis since last New Year’s, but they’ve talked. Harry’s even moved beyond the bitter rage, although the hurt still lingers somewhere in the dark and ignored corners of his chest. It’s silly that he still does. That Louis crosses his mind often, even after all this time. They were just kids, but Harry’s not sure how to let it go. No matter how hard he tries, no matter if he falls head over heels for someone else, Louis will always be there, orbiting.

Halfway through his trip, Harry had started sending postcards, which eventually lead to a phone call where Harry told Louis he’d be back for the summer and that they could talk. A week before he was supposed to head home, Harry decided against it and stayed in Berlin instead. He was too scared to go back, too scared to face Louis. He was scared that he’d fall back too easily. Louis still had a piece of Harry that he didn’t want to see. Instead of calling, Harry sent another postcard with nothing but, _berlin calls! christmas?_ written in black ink. He didn’t even bother to sign it. When he returned to Donny in the fall, he found himself calling Louis and suggesting that he visit him in Oxford. Louis sounded surprised, and then happy, before finally lowering his voice almost apologetically. “I should tell you though that I have a boyfriend,” he said. “But you should still come.” Harry brushed it off like it was no big deal, that it was just a thought and he’d get back to him. Then, he moved to Paris and didn’t return for Christmas.

It was for the best that way, Harry wasn’t strong enough then, which was shown in the way he even considered visiting, or the way his heart sunk at the mention of Louis having a boyfriend. It was all so stupid, and Harry was not going to be the one to run after him. Yet, here he is, two hours into the New Year with Louis’ sleepy voice in his ear.

“’Ello?”

“Hey, Louis. It’s me,” he says, before realising that Louis most likely doesn’t know who _me_ is anymore. “I mean, it’s Harry. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Oh, no. Just hold on a second, yeah?” Harry hears stirring, a muffled moan of discontent that Harry assumes is The Boyfriend. It doesn’t bother him like it used to. It shouldn’t, he reminds himself, not with his own downstairs.

Harry can hear the door close, and then padding of footsteps. “Hey, sorry,” he says, voice still lowered but slightly more awake. “What’s up?”

“I just - I don’t know.” He suddenly feels very, very stupid. He wishes he never called. “Um, Happy New Year’s?”

Louis laughs, and it sounds real and rich. Even through the miles between them, Harry feels like he could reach out and grab a hold of it. “Thanks. You too.”

“Sorry I wasn’t there for Christmas.”

“Yeah, I heard you moved to Paris.” He chuckles, and says, “Mate, you really can’t stay still, can you?”

“No, I guess not.” Harry smiles, tucking his feet underneath him. He wishes he hadn’t forgotten his shoes. “I love it here. You should really visit someday.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he says, but they both know he won’t. Harry can’t be too disappointed either way. In the long run, it’s better off that way.

Silence falls between them, and Harry’s not sure if this is the part where he’s supposed to ask Louis about school and The Boyfriend, or if he’s supposed to tell him that he busses in a real Parisian café and has his own French lover. He doesn’t want to do any of that though. He doesn’t want hear it, doesn’t want to vocal reminder that their lives are so separate now, spread apart from miles and oceans, barely aware of what’s going on with the other. He wants to pretend like nothing has happened between them. No tears or heartbreak or yelling or avoidance. He wants to pretend none of that ever happened, and that this is just Louis, the very best mate that he’s ever had.

“It’s nice to hear from you,” Louis eventually says, breaking the silence.

“You too.”

“I - ” he stops himself, falling silent as if reconsidering his words. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper, “I miss you, you know.”

Harry swallows, fingers digging into his knee. Suddenly, he’s very aware of how cold it is outside. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you too.”

“I was just thinking the other day about that time that we had that grand idea to go and camp out by the river and just like, I don’t even know, drink all night and watch the sunrise?” Louis says, chuckling a little. “So we told both our parents we were sleeping at each other’s houses, but of course that didn’t work because my mum saw that I took the car. Idiots, we were.”

Harry laughs, grinning at the memory. “Yeah, I remember that. I was in so much shit with my mum. I was grounded for like, a month.”

“So was I. It didn’t help that we were pissed by the time they got a hold of us, and came and picked us up.” He cracks up. “Oh my god, didn’t you puke in the backseat?”

“Shut up, yeah.” Harry pulls on his bottom lip, trying to push down his grin.

“I’m fairly positive that was the morning I spent the entire day vomiting, so I can’t be…” He trails off, and Harry can hear murmuring on the other line, a male voice, of course. Harry doesn’t even know him, has no idea what he’s like, but in this moment he hates him. He hates him for interrupting this. He gets Louis all the time, why can’t Harry just have this?

“Yeah. Yeah, baby, go back to bed. I’ll be there in a second,” Harry hears Louis say. “It’s just a friend. I’m not being sneaky. I didn’t want to wake you.” He hears a muffle, like Louis is covering the mouthpiece, and for a minute Harry hears nothing. Harry’s considering just hanging up and going back to bed when Louis’ back on the line. “Sorry about that, mate,” he says, but it sounds too forced, far more casual than before. Harry assumes his still there, wrapped up in their sheets, listening. “I should get to bed. It was nice catching up though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’s late. Sorry again for waking you and, well, uh.” He stops, figures he’d rather not acknowledge it out loud.

“Yeah, it’s okay. No problem.” There’s an awkward pause, like he’s not quite ready to hang up either, but then he’s saying, “Happy New Year’s.”

“Happy New Year’s,” Harry echoes, and Louis hangs up.

He sits outside for a few more minutes, until the cold becomes too much. Back inside, he sets his phone on the dresser, and crawls in under the covers. He curls close to Sebastian in an attempt to steal some body heat. Sebastian mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, still half asleep.

Harry nudges his nose against his cheek, breathing him in until he stirs.

“You good?” he mumbles.

Harry nods. “Perfect.”

*

Two weeks later, Sebastian finally agrees to bring Harry back to his place. Harry is barely able to contain his excitement as they walk down the cobblestone street from the café. He tries to keep his cool, but he knows Sebastian sees right through it.

Since meeting, Harry hasn’t been to his place once. In fact, Harry doesn’t know much about his life pre-Paris besides that he grew up in Luxembourg. Harry’s tried to get it out of him, pry him for details on his family and childhood, but Sebastian always shook his head and kissed him while saying, “I’m here now.”

With each block, the buildings around them become more beautiful and grandiose. Harry doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He’s went over every possible scenario as to what life Sebastian has kept hidden. He doesn’t think it could be shame, that he was so embarrassed over his apartment that he had to keep Harry away, because he doesn’t think it’s possible to get much worse than his own. Plus, Sebastian is always wearing nice clothes, tailored and pristine, unlike Harry who doesn’t own a single article of clothing that isn’t over a year old. The thought struck him that he’s rich. That made the most sense, and now that they’re surrounded by beautiful Parisian buildings and towering trees next to Victorian lampposts, Harry’s even more certain.

Sebastian comes to a stop in front of a large townhouse. It looks exactly how you’d expect a lavish Parisian home to be, with soft white brick and a black iron fence with beautiful detailing. The garden out front is spectacular, with roses and daisies and lilacs, perfectly trimmed but with a wild taste, as if you’d stepped into the countryside. Harry has fallen so in love with the outside that he can’t begin to imagine what’s inside.

Sebastian looks nervous as he turns the key in the door, slowly pushing it open. He holds it for Harry, hesitantly, allowing him to step in first. Harry moves slowly, as if entering a secret palace. It’s as he expected and even more, his senses immediately filling with marble and golds and pastels. He’s not sure what else to think besides, beautiful, lavish. It reminds him of the few castles he’s seen over the years.

“This is your place?” Harry asks, awed, and they’re only in the foyer. He looks up to where the marble staircase spirals to the second floor, ceiling high and complete with a giant, crystal chandelier. “This is your place, and you’ve waited a month and a half to bring me here? You’re telling me we could’ve been here instead of my shitty apartment all this time?” He turns to look at Sebastian, incredulously.

Sebastian replies with a sheepish look of his own. “I’m sorry,” he says where he’s leaning against the wall. “I just - you know. It’s a little much. I wanted you to get to know me first, without all of this.”

“Scared I’d use you for your money?” Harry smirks, approaching him. He reaches out, circling his arms around his waist and pulling him forward. “I would never.”  

He smiles, tucking a curl behind Harry’s ear. “No, not exactly. It’s hard to explain. It’s just that my entire life has been this, what I have. It’s kind of this messed up idea that I’m my parent’s money. I just wanted to be separate from that for a bit, but I know I couldn’t hide it from you forever.”

“I guess that’s fair.” Harry nudges their noses together, kissing him. “Well, thanks for finally sharing this with me. I was beginning to worry that you were a mass murderer that kept bodies in your basement.”

“What makes you think that’s not still a possibility?” he asks, teasingly.

Harry laughs, and squeezes his hip before stepping away, itching to explore the rest of the house. He stops to gape at the beautiful floral arrangement that appears larger than his entire kitchen. “So,” he starts, heading further inside, “do your parents live here too?”

“No, they’re back in Luxembourg. We’ve had this house for years. I’d come here as kid. It’s just where we stay when we come to Paris.”

“Wow,” Harry says. There’s fresh flowers everywhere, soft pinks and whites and lavender. He could bathe in all of its richness. If this is where they vacation, he can’t begin to imagine what their real home looks like. “What exactly do your parents do?”

“Uh, it’s old money, basically,” he says, following Harry as he slowly inches around the family room, taking everything in.

Harry smirks. “So, they don’t do much but roll around in their piles of money?”

Sebastian laughs. “You could say that.”

By the time they make it upstairs, Harry only sees three of the rooms before they reach Sebastian’s. He had claimed the master bedroom, and Harry’s certain that his closet is bigger than his entire apartment. “I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding from me,” Harry says, running his hands against his soft cotton dress shirts. He’s not mad, he can’t even really blame him. Who’s to say Harry wouldn’t have done the exact same thing in his situation?

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says, genuinely.

Harry turns to him, and offers a smile, before joining him by the door. “Don’t be,” he says, tugging on his belt loops to kiss him. They’re close to the same height, Sebastian even a few inches taller. It was weird for Harry at first, as he’s become used to being with guys shorter than him. He thought it would be a little awkward in bed with someone just as tall and lanky as him, but if anything, their sex is some of the best he’s ever had - and well, Harry can’t lie, throughout his year-long trip there had been a lot of it.  

Harry presses himself even closer, slipping his tongue between Sebastian’s lips. He trails his hand down his chest, slipping his fingers into the waistband of his jeans. Smirking, he says, “How about we put that gigantic bed to good use, yeah?”  

*

Most mornings, Harry slips out of bed first, leaving Sebastian with a kiss on his crease-stained cheek. Harry loves to cook almost as much as he loves the early hours of the morning, when the world is fresh and sleepy, early sunlight pouring in through the rose trees outside the kitchen windows. It feels like a privilege to Harry to even be in a kitchen that looks like it floated off the pages of a magazine. Never mind the abundance of fresh produce and meat and pastries that seem to appear everyday without explanation. Harry has been practically living here for a month now, and if he felt like he was in a fairytale before, than he feels like he's in an absolute dream now.

Most of the time he cooks in quiet, nothing but the sound of the eggs frying, the birds outside, and the own hum of his voice.  Today though, he opts for the radio, cranking it on high, hips shaking to a familiar French pop song. While Harry tries to avoid the American variety, French pop offers a different experience for him - mostly on the mornings when the sun seems a little brighter, birds a little louder, and he’s still floating off the hazy sex memories of the night before. French pop doesn’t come twofold with a certain blue-eyed, tan-skinned someone that Harry tries hard not to think about on most days.

Harry’s in the middle of a heartfelt chorus, pitch high and pronunciation terrible, when he hears a female voice behind him say, “Qu'est-ce que nous avons ici?”

Harry drops the spatula-turned-mic to his side without a seconds hesitation, spinning around to face a brunette women leaning against the island. She’s smirking, half-hidden by a large arrangement of lilies displayed on the counter. She looks like she could be his age, maybe, but with her perfectly styled hair and manicured features, she could also pass for thirty-five.

“Uh…” Harry blinks, realizing he’s nothing but his tiny briefs. He throws his hands in front of himself, as if that would help hide anything. The maid has more than likely seen Harry in his underwear more than she has his own clothes - even naked more times than he’d like to admit - but she mostly just flits about, never batting an eyelash. This woman is certainly not a maid though, and she stares at him with such judgement that Harry can nearly taste it.

Surely minutes have passed by now, and Harry can’t think of a single thing to say while she clicks her tongue along the roof of her mouth. “Well, now I see why Sebastian has been hiding himself away in Paris for so long. Got himself another secret boy-toy. Shocker.” She tosses her head to the side, long curls dancing across the counter. “You do speak English, right?” she says, syllables dragged as if he might be slow.

Harry’s not sure whether to be more offended over the insinuation, or the fact that he was just referred to Sebastian as ‘boy toy.’ Instead of voicing either, he just nods his head.

"Yeah, figured. Sebastian doesn't care much for the French. Let me guess…" She taps a manicured finger against her chin, "Aussie?"

"No, British."

"Hm." She presses her cherry lips together. "That's new."

Harry feels his cheeks flush, wondering how many there have been. They've never talked about it much, Harry not asking and also not offering. The thought is only there for a moment before he's blinking at her and saying, "Sorry, but may I ask who you are?"

She frowns. "Alexandra." There's a pause, as if waiting for Harry's reaction. When there's none, her frown deepens and she continues, syllables dragged once more. "I'm Sebastian's sister." Noticing his blank face, she says, "And you didn't know he had a sister. Hm, funny. I wonder what else he's been keeping from you."

"Uh…" Harry looks helplessly towards the staircase, willing Sebastian to appear. He experiences no such luck.

"Is this like, a one night stand thing, or?" she asks. "It's important that I know so I can mentally prepare myself for another Guillaume explosion."

"Er, not exactly. He's my boyfriend," he mumbles, feeling very juvenile under her blank expression. "We've been together for like, three months now." It's no surprise to Harry that Sebastian has an unmentioned sister. He's not sure how they've managed to go so long without much mention of their past or family. Harry knows all of Sebastian's current friends - their jobs, their pets, their favourite colours. He knows about his classes at school, his professors’ name. Harry has always been curious about his Luxembourg life, but Sebastian seems apt to keep it secret. Since Harry isn't exactly jumping to share his own life story, it didn't seem fair to ask without it being offered first.

She scoffs, eyebrows nearly hitting her chocolate roots. "Three month? He's been hiding you for three months?" Without warning, she transitions into French, shaking her head and scoffing after every muttered sentence, momentarily taking Harry aback. He’s still nowhere near fluent in French, but he manages to pick up on _mother, father_ and _murder_.

Fortunately, offering his first born up to God is what finally brings Sebastian stumbling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and in nothing but his own boxers, covering only slightly more than Harry’s. Harry nearly cries with relief.

Sebastian almost passes right by her before jumping back, shocked as if looking right at a ghost. "Alex!" He chokes, and Harry watches as his face turns from pale white to a blistering red in seconds flat. "What are you doing here? You couldn't have rang first?"

She doesn't bother replying in English, and within moments they're engaged in a fiery battle, speaking so quickly that Harry can't even attempt to follow what's being said.

He wonders if he could slip away from the now charred eggs and erupting war without anyone noticing. He isn’t given the chance to try because Alexandra’s suddenly eyeing him suspiciously, Sebastian rubbing his temple in what appears to be pure agony. “You swear you didn’t do any research? You’re not just playing innocent and thinking this is some pauper meets prince story, right? Poor English boy to Luxembourg Princess? Because I’ll tell you now, mon cher, that won’t be happening.”

“Eh…” Harry blinks, completely lost. “What?”

Alexandra ignores him to look at Sebastian, smirking to herself. “I suppose he’d make an excellent Snow White.”

"Alexandra,” he says between clenched teeth. “Why?"

She makes a sweeping gesture towards Harry, eyes still locked with her brother’s. "Be my guest," she says.

Harry stares between them, floundered, wishing one of them would just get on with it already.

Sebastian sighs, and takes careful steps towards Harry, as if he might flee over too quick a movement. He reaches forward, circling a large hand around Harry's wrist, tense. "So, there may be a little something I left out…"

"Okay…" he says, slowly, flicking his gaze back to Alexandra who's tapping her pink nails against the marble countertop.

"I may, sort of," he starts, and then pauses, before saying all in one breath, "beaprince."

"What?" Harry says, spluttering. He jerks away from Sebastian without meaning, nearly knocking over the frying pan and spatula as he backs into the counter. After no reply from either, he chokes out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, okay. Sure. A prince. I suppose that makes you a princess?" He shoots an amused, though slightly terrified, look at Alexandra.

She shrugs, then nods, before going back to her fingernail as if suddenly bored of this whole ordeal.

"I know. It's ridiculous. I just - I didn't know how to tell you something like that. I mean, you'd definitely look at me differently - everyone would. How can you casually tell someone you're the Prince of Luxembourg - not _the_ prince, but one of three. I mean, not that I thought you'd use me or anything like that, but I just - I don't know. I didn't want you to look at me differently out of all people. I swear, I was going to tell you. Soon."

The most eloquent thing Harry can come up with is, "I didn't even know there was a royal family in Luxembourg."

"My dad's not a king or anything," he says, like that would change anything. "He's just a Duke, but we still get put with these stupid titles."

"Speak for yourself," Alexandra says. "I quite like being a princess."

Sebastian ignores her, and reaches for Harry's hand. Harry allows him to intertwine their fingers, too shocked to do much but let it awkwardly hang between them. "It's just - a title. I mean - " He laughs, nervously. "It's no like, Queen of England type thing."

"We live in a castle," Alexandra pipes in.

"Alex." He groans in exasperation, jaw tightening.

"Okay, okay." She raises her hands in defeat. "I'll just be in my bedroom if you need me," she says, sweetly, and saunters out of the room, her silk heels clicking on the marble.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Sebastian says again, after no word from Harry. "I didn't know how - I've never.” He stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again, “No relationship has ever gotten this far. My friends for over a year don't even know. Well, most. A few figured it out, but I made them swear to secrecy."

Harry's not mad - that's not what he feels. He feels mostly confusion, like this is all some sick joke. His brain has been running in every possible direction, in every explanation besides that his boyfriend is a prince. He's even so much as wondering if Sebastian is actually a drama major, and he's getting filmed right now. A sick final project, maybe?

"A prince?" is all Harry can say.

Sebastian bites onto his bottom lip, and nods, eyes wide like a scared puppy. He's squeezing the blood out of Harry's hand. "I'm so sorry. Please don't be mad."

"A castle?"

Sebastian looks pained now. "I wish I could say she was just exaggerating, but she wasn't. It's a castle. It looks like somewhere a bloody Disney princess would live."

Harry can't help but laugh, muffling it with the hand not glued to Sebastian's.

Sebastian smiles, relieved, and squeezes Harry's hip, reminding him that he's still very much exposed in his briefs. "I'm sorry," he murmurs again.

"It's okay. I just - I'm in shock, that's all."

"I know." He runs his hand through Harry's tousled curls, and says, "And I'm sorry that my sister is such a _salope_."

Harry laughs. "She's charming," he says in the sweetest voice he can muster. "Exactly how I imagined a real princess to be."

Sebastian makes a noise of disapproval before pulling Harry forward, nudging their mouths together. "And what about a real prince?"

"Not even a little," Harry says, honestly.

"Good," Sebastian smiles into his mouth, "that's what I like to hear." He kisses Harry before saying, "Thank you for being so understanding."

"As long this is the last thing. I can deal with you being secretly rich, and I guess, maybe this whole prince thing. But, I swear, if you're secretly married or have a pet elephant - "

"No wife. No elephant," he says. "Just a sloth."

Harry rolls his eyes, smiling against his mouth. His brain is still floating somewhere above, attempting to reconcile the fact that his boyfriend of three months is a prince. He thinks briefly that maybe this is some messed up fairytale after all, before reprimanding himself for being a five year-old. He nudges his nose against Sebastian's, and says, "I am so googling you."

*

After the big reveal, life mostly continues on the way it was. Harry continues to bake croissants and clear tables while not get any better at French, and Sebastian continues on at school being an undercover prince.

They don't talk about it really, except for the one afternoon that Harry spent on Google while Sebastian hid on the other side of the doorframe, too embarrassed to see the photos of him and his family plastered all over the internet.

"I was such an ugly kid. Look at my haircut. You'd swear the maid did it,” he whined. "Hardly prince material," he said with a faux-airy voice, and Harry thinks that he might've been joking.

"I think you look precious." Although, he was thankful that Sebastian was around the corner so he couldn't see Harry muffling giggles as he flipped through his headshots. "I can't believe my boyfriend is a real-life prince. It's a dream come true," he said, teasing.

Sebastian let out another groan, maybe even a foot stomp, before Harry heard his feet pad down the hallway.

Harry's boyfriend may be a prince, but he now knows exactly how to get him to squirm and blush and groan in this really endearing way. He never thought the day would come.  

Harry lets it be for exactly one month, until they're stretched out on the couch watching _Bring It On_ , Harry's legs across his lap. He pokes him in the stomach with his toe, and says, "So, like, when can I see your castle?"

" _Harry._ "

"Why do you hate this royalty thing so much? I can't even bring it up without you wailing like you're in pain."

"It's just - " He shakes his head. "I moved here to get away from it all for awhile."

Harry pulls a face. "It can't be that bad."

Sebastian frowns, the light of the television illuminating the wrinkles between his eyebrows. "It's not… all the time. But look, my parents aren't exactly thrilled about the gay thing. That's one of the reasons I left actually." He looks to Harry who's sitting up now, eyebrows raised in curiosity. He grabs a hold of Harry's ankle, fingers brushing into his sweatpants. "I guess my maid was like, a fucking spy or something, and she told my parents I was having a guy into my apartments all the time. It was so tense all the time. I had to get out of there."

"I'm sorry," is all Harry can think of to say.

"Thanks, but you don't have to be. That's how it is. A prince can't be gay. It doesn't matter if I'll never actually be Duke because I'm third in line. It's all about the lineage - procreating to carry on the family name. All about looks. But what can you do, you know? I'm sure as hell not marrying any of the women they've lined up for me so desperately." He's not looking at Harry anymore, but his hand is still on his ankle, rubbing circles absentmindedly. "We barely talk, but there's no doubt that they think I'm on a gay rampage, hopping nightclubs and prancing down the street in my rainbow underwear. They're just waiting to disown me, I know it."

Harry can’t say he was expecting any of that. Sebastian has barely spoken more than five words about his family, and all of those were for Alexandra. Harry removes his feet from his lap, scooting over until their shoulders are brushing, and presses a hand against his chest. "I'm sorry, mon chou.."

Sebastian gives out a small laugh, like he always does when Harry chooses to use that term of endearment. "Again, you don't need to be, but thanks. It's all part of the perks of being a prince. I've accepted it," he says, although Harry's not sure that he has.

"But they don't accept you."

He shrugs. "Yeah, well."

Harry nudges his nose against his cheek like a kitten. "I accept you."

Sebastian laughs, real and full this time. "Thanks, mon coco."

"Egg, that's sweet." Harry smiles into his neck, nibbling at the skin. He presses his nose against his Adam's Apple, inhales his musky, _Clive Christian_ cologne, and murmurs, "I love you."

Sebastian's fingers find their way to Harry's collar, dancing along the bone. Sebastian's smiling wide, and he pecks his nose, then both his eyebrows. "I love you too," he says, and kisses his grin.

*

Sebastian's an absolute mess the entire drive to Luxembourg. An hour into the trip, Harry has to literally coerce him out of the driver’s seat and into the passenger seat before they both meet their death in a fiery blaze. He loves him, but not quite enough to die with him at age twenty.

Even as they're driving through the Luxembourg border, Harry still finds it hard to believe that Sebastian agreed to this.

Harry can see it before they’ve even pulled up to the gate. In fact, he can see it looming over the treetops from a mile away. Up until the moment they’re getting buzzed through the large, iron gates, Harry is still waiting for the punch-line. He gets none, only a pale Sebastian curled up in the passenger seat like an oversized puppy. This is real. His boyfriend really is a prince whose parents live in a bloody castle.

Sebastian wasn’t lying either. Harry almost expects a Disney princess to come prancing out, followed by hummingbirds and fawns in song. Harry doesn’t even turn the ignition off, instead he just stares at the giant tower above them, unblinking.

"Three… two.. one…" Sebastian says, and Harry doesn't even have time to ask when three people dressed in matching uniforms come rushing out from the front door.

Harry rolls down the tinted window as they approach. "Your - " the man says, then stops once he sees it's Harry in the front seat. His eyes instantly flick to Sebastian, who is barely recognizable with his hands splayed in front of his face. "Your Royal Highness." And they bow. _Bow._

Harry slaps his hand across his mouth, muffling his laughter.

Sebastian groans, sinking further into his seat. "I told them not to call me that," Harry makes out through his hands.

The man begins to speak in French, and Harry makes out a lot of 'sir's before he's catching onto the idea that they want them out so they can park the _Range Rover_ and take in their bags. Maybe Harry's French is improving, after all.

Sebastian practically races through the long, winding hallways to their room, and Harry struggles to keep up while staring around them in awe. Harry’s been to a few castles before, but he had also paid an arm and a leg to wander around reconstructed rooms while tourists pushed around him. This is a real castle, with a real family. His _boyfriend’s_ family. Harry’s not sure how much more he can say it until he finally believes it.

Sebastian collapses onto the bed immediately. It’s king-sized, of course, with a luscious fluffy comforter that makes him appear as if he’s floating. Harry continues to look around in wonder, touching everything his fingers can come into contact with. His home in Paris is beautiful, but it doesn’t shed a light to where they are now. “This is insane,” he says eventually. He looks to Sebastian who’s staring up at him from the bed.

"It's okay."

Harry looks at him, incredulous, rolling his eyes. "Shut up. You know it is."

"I didn't grow up here," he says, as if that explains his lack of interest. "We grew up in another castle. I like that one much better. This is too - cold."

"Well, I love it."

Sebastian shrugs again, then rolls onto his stomach, burying his face into the covers.

Harry hoists himself up onto the bed and crawls over, straddling his legs over Sebastian's hips. He leans down, mouthing at the skin just below his hairline. "Thank you for bringing me here."

Sebastian makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like 'harrumph' into the mattress.

Harry laughs, burrying his face into his hair. They don't move until the butler comes to get them for dinner, face cold and uninviting. Harry holds onto Sebastian's hand as they make their way to the dining room, hoping his parents are warmer than he let on. By the pained look on Sebastian's face, he thinks hope might be a little too much to ask for.

*

Turns out it is. 

Harry had thought that in the three days there he might be able to charm the pants off Sebastian’s parents enough to change their mind. At the very least, enough to allow them to live in one of their many castles, happily ever after.

It doesn’t quite work out that way though. If anything, they’ve become colder. Harry expected some resistance, but he could not have anticipated for them to be as downright rude as they are. They make even Alexandra look like a blessed angel. Harry tries, in every way that he can, but they either brush him off or make some snide comment that Harry can’t pretend isn’t a direct insult. Most of the time though, they speak in German, and something tells Harry that’s not the usual language spoken around the dinner table.

On their second night, his family throws a ‘get together.’ That’s what they call it at least, but to Harry, it’s a goddamn ball. Harry’s surprised that he’s even allowed to attend, although he knows he’s meant to spend the evening blending into the wall while Sebastian flits about the ballroom, mingling and sipping champagne like a professional. Harry witnesses some very blatant attempts by his parents to parade him with pretty-faced girls in satin dresses. Harry watches as Sebastian shakes their hand, smiling politely, and engages in small talk long enough that his parents believe they’re getting somewhere, only for Sebastian to excuse himself after a few minutes.

Every so often he will join Harry against the wall, where he’s faithfully remained, eating hors d'œuvre and drinking far too much champagne. Then, one of them will crack a joke about something or someone in the room, hurling them into hysterics, until Sebastian's mother shoots daggers at them from across the room. She comes over at once, hissing at Sebastian in German, eyes dragging across Harry in what could only be considered disgust.

While the whole thing is beautiful and extravagant - chandeliers and ball gowns and twinkling lights in the garden - he finally understands why Sebastian was so desperate to get out, and even more desperate not to speak of it.

On their last night, Harry is returning from the kitchen with water when he’s cornered by their butler. “The Grand Duke requests your presence in his study.”

Harry gulps, feels his stomach drop in fear. “Can I ask why?”

The butler ignores him, taking a step back to motion down the hallway. It suddenly seems much more eerie than extravagant. “Please, follow me.”

Harry obliges, gripping onto his glass, wondering why Sebastian has to be asleep two floors up. What if this was the plan all along? To get him alone and ship him off to Asia?

They step into the study, where the Duke is sitting behind the large, oak desk, the duchess to his right. They look all too serious, and Harry gulps once more, feeling very underdressed in his _Abercrombie & Fitch_ sweatpants.

The Duke waves the butler away, the door closing behind him, leaving no witness for when they murder and bury Harry in the secret compartment in the bookcase. The only thing he can think of to say is, “Um, hello?”

“Mr. Styles, I’m willing to offer you ten thousand pounds.”

“What?” Harry nearly shouts, almost dropping his glass onto the floor. “Why would you - ”

“To stop - ” He frowns, and makes a sweeping motion with his hand, “to stop whatever it is that you’re doing with my son.”

Harry can only stare at him, pulse beating shallowly in his ear, dulled by shock.

“Well?”

“You’re insane,” Harry says, mindlessly. “You can’t pay me to leave Sebastian.”

The Duke clears his throat, and leans back in his leather seat, looking Harry over in contemplation. “Twenty then.” Before Harry can tell him he’s a moron, he’s continuing, “Twenty thousand, Mr. Styles. Do you realize how much money that is? You could go to school with that. Go anywhere in the world. Is a silly love affair really worth turning that down?”

 “It’s not a silly love affair. We’re adults - ”

“Hardly.”

Harry’s backbone had all but been non-existent this weekend. He had stuck to sitting back, smiling and using manners when needed, but never much else despite their blatant disdain. Every night he’s laid awake wishing he had stood up, not only for himself but for Sebastian as well. “Look, I love your son and there’s no amount of money that can make me disappear.”

“Well, that’s your mistake. The money we’re offering will go a long way, but this - this thing you have with Sebastian won’t. He’s a Guillaume. Royals don’t marry young, nobody boys from the English countryside. They marry ladies and politicians’ daughters. Eventually, Sebastian will snap out of this phase and return to where his loyalties lie, and you will be nothing but a distant memory from his wild days. It’s better for everyone if you help speed that up, and have your university tuition paid for in the meantime. You’d be a fool to turn this down.”

Harry’s face is on fire, heart lodged in his throat, now beating uncontrollably. “Then I’m a fool,” he eventually manages. He turns back on his heel, pushing the door open with shaky hands. The Duke is looking at him with a darkened expression, darker than he’s seen yet. “We’ll be out in the morning.”

“Really think about this, Harry.”

As the door closes behind him, Harry realizes that was the first time the Duke had called him by his name in three days.

Harry waits until he’s up the first flight of stairs and around a darkened corner before he plasters himself against the wall, chest heaving. He waits there, five, maybe ten minutes, before he gets his bearings together enough to head up to his room, legs still shaky and threatening to give out.

He crawls into bed, curling up against Sebastian’s warm body. He shifts closer to Harry, mumbling something unintelligible.

“Hey,” Harry says, whisper hiding the crack in his voice.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, love.” Harry kisses his ear. “Great.”

Sebastian hums under his breath, snuggling closer to Harry, flinging a long limb over his legs. “Good,” he says, breath turning shallow after minutes.

Harry doesn’t sleep much that night.

*

Harry waits two days after they get home before telling Sebastian what happened with his parents. If not for the brief, darkened expression and clenched jaw, Harry would’ve never known he was angry, much less surprised, his expression falling wholly unrecognizable and blank. “Figures,” he says, shaking his head, and that’s that.

“I said no,” he says, though he assumes it’s obvious. “I’d never…”

“How much?”

Harry swallows. “Twenty.”

Sebastian doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “They could’ve done better than that.”

“It doesn’t matter because I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“Why not?” Sebastian asks, tone flat and unassuming.

Harry frowns, taken aback, and lightly nudges his side. “Because I love you?”

Sebastian rolls onto his back and says nothing for a long while. Harry watches Sebastian study the ceiling, something ugly building inside his own chest. He doesn’t touch him. Finally, Sebastian says, “They threatened to take my inheritance away and remove me from the lineage.”

“Seb…”

“Let them,” he says, but the lack of emotion doesn’t leave much comfort. “Maybe it’ll be better that way, anyway. They won’t kick me out onto the street. The least they’ll do is buy me a house somewhere and pay off the rest of my schooling, and quietly remove me from their life, tell everyone I was the one that left. But that’s okay, I could have the life I always wanted without all the rules and regulations and expectations.”

If it were up to Harry, he’d agree that this was for the best, but Sebastian sounds so entirely exhausted and emotionally dead, that Harry can’t find it himself to. So he just runs a comforting hand over his stomach, and presses a kiss to his jaw. “I love you, you know.”

Sebastian links their fingers together and turns his head to give Harry a tired smile. “I know, and I love you too. I wouldn’t - ”

Harry nods before he can finish. “I know,” he says, and kisses him.

*

Things are okay for awhile, but then a week passes, then two, and Harry’s finding it harder to convince himself that the way Sebastian’s slow but sure withdrawal only has to do with the mourning of his parents.

After awhile it’s nearly impossible to get anything out of him, and it’s as if it’s the ghost of him now, sleeping beside him, kissing him, eating meals with him across the table. He’s distant even when they’re close, even when they’re making love. As the gnawing pit in Harry’s stomach grows worse, he finds himself clinging, pulling at Sebastian, which only causes him to retreat further.

When it does come, Harry isn’t much surprised. He finds himself thankful for all those years he spent with Louis, where he was able to watch and study the intricate process of building up walls. Of course, Harry doesn’t have the same expertise, so his walls are too short and thin and easy to knock down, but there will be some rubble, at least.

“Harry,” is how he starts it, breathing in slow. Harry’s facing him on the couch, hands enveloped in his. “I think you should take the money.”

Harry blinks, feeling a brick topple. “Why?” he says, as evenly as he can manage.

“Harry…” His eyes plead, _don’t make me say it._

Harry rips his hand out of his. “Say it.”

“Harry, they’re my family…”

“So, what? You’re just going to live a lie for the rest of your life? Marry some rich French girl and have a ton of babies in your castle while fucking the gardener in secret?” Harry stands up and crosses over to the other side of the room, telling himself the further he distances himself from Sebastian, the less emotions will trickle through the cracks. Why can’t he be like Louis? Why does he always have to be the pathetic, blubbering one? The one making moon-eyes while getting his heart stolen or kicked in the side?

“Harry, please, this isn’t easy,” he says. “What do you expect me to do? If I could be with you, and - ”

“Keep your inheritance?”

Sebastian sighs, dropping his head and rubbing his fingers against his forehead. “Harry…”

Harry ignores him, hearting pounding in his ears. He picks up a small porcelain cat off the mantel, rolling it around in his hands. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry_ , he tells himself, keeping his back to Sebastian. He hopes he can’t see him shaking through his t-shirt.

Time drags on between them, silence thick over the ticking of the grandfather clock. Once Harry’s managed to swallow down the ball in his throat, he’s the first to speak. “God, this entire time you acted as if that life was the last thing you wanted. So shallow and vain and fake, but as soon as it’s threatened to be taken away, it’s suddenly the most important thing.”

“Can you spare me with your judgements, please?” he snaps. “You have no idea what it’s like, living your whole life as a prince, without a worry. I’m not like you. Even living a few hours in my own home was a huge deal. I’m not you. I can’t just pack up a backpack and fuck off across the continent, having no idea where my next meal or bed is going to be. It’s my family, it’s my life, it’s all I know. Yeah, it may be shallow and vain and my parents might be even worse, but they’re my parents. I can’t just let them disown me. What does it matter if I have to spend the rest of my life pretending? Heck, I’ve been pretending this entire time. Pretending I’m not a prince, pretending I’m not as selfish and vain as the rest of them.”

Harry’s not sure what the final blow was to make the entire wall come crumbling down, but by the end of Sebastian’s speech, he’s crying. Hot tears are streaming down his cheeks, just like when he was eighteen years old and got the shit kicked out of him by his boyfriend.

“Harry,” Sebastian’s voice softens, and Harry flinches away as approaches him. “You know I love you,” he says, and Harry swears he hears a crack in his voice over his own sobs. “This wasn’t - this isn’t easy, okay?” Sebastian reaches for him again, but Harry pushes him away, opting to bury his face in his sleeves. “It wouldn’t last forever, you know that. We’re two completely different people, from completely different worlds.”

“I would’ve made it work,” Harry says stubbornly, muffed by tears and the cotton of his jumper.

Sebastian sighs, and this time when he reaches for Harry’s waist, he doesn’t have the energy to push him away. “Babe, please, just try and understand where I’m coming from.” He pulls Harry into his chest, stroking his hair. Everything in Harry screams at him to resist, but instead, he sinks in further. He hears Sebastian sniff, and feels his chest shake against his cheek. “You know I’m not the one,” he whispers into his hair.

Harry sniffs, feeling more tears escape, soaking into Sebastian’s cashmere. Did he think Sebastian was the one? He doesn’t even know. Sure, he had plenty of fantasies of them living in their giant castle atop of mountain, adopting a ton of babies - but, _the one?_ Harry’s not sure what that even means, or if he believes in it anymore. He used to think Louis was the one. Fate and destiny and all that bullshit. All the while he was concocting this elaborate fairytale with Sebastian, Louis trickled in, always there, unrelenting.

As if reading his very thoughts, Harry makes out the faintest whisper against his ear. “Louis,” Sebastian says.

Harry pushes back, hands flat on his chest, as if electrocuted. He stares at Sebastian, blood rushing to his head. “What?” He asks, flabbergasted, tears suddenly stopped. Harry has never told him about Louis, never whispered a word about what happened. While Harry knows he’s mentioned him - how could he not when he’s the main character in all of his best stories? - but he never mentioned feelings. Louis was never more than a best mate from home.

“Oh, come on, Harry. Since the first night I met you, it was always Louis. All these great adventures of Louis and Harry. All the funny things Louis’ done. Remember that night, after we first got together, we went out and you drank too much? At the pub? You were drunk, and you kept talking about him, how you were here because he broke your heart, but you still thought he was lovely. I never forgot that.”

“I don’t - ” Harry wants to argue, wants to say it’s not like that. Harry thought he had done a good job of keeping Louis and everything that came along with him, locked up in a little red box at the back of his mind, surrounded by walls and walls of electric fences. Of course it escaped though, he always escapes. He takes two steps back, feeling sick and humiliated. “If this is about him,” he frowns, struggling for words, “it’s not - I’m not - we haven’t even properly spoken in years.”

Sebastian smiles, sad. “It’s not, Harry. All I’m saying is that there’s better people to fight for.”

“I can’t believe this. First you’re breaking up with me, and then you throw Louis in my face like you have any fucking idea?”

“Harry, I’m so sorry.”

Another tear slips down Harry’s cheek, then the other. “You don’t have to - we could. We could make it work. Your parents aren’t really going to disown you forever. You’re their son… They’ll come around,” he says, but he knew it was useless before he even began.

“Harry.” Sebastian sighs, stepping towards him. Harry is really sick of hearing his name. Sebastian anchors his face with both his hands, leaning forward to press their foreheads together.

Harry wants to move, but he can’t seem to make his limbs work, so he keeps himself there, sharing breaths. They stay silent for awhile, until Harry’s silent tears have stopped for good. He’s wondering if it’s bad luck, or if he’s really that unlovable.

When they pull apart, Sebastian’s eyes are puffy, cheeks wet, and Harry thinks, at least there’s that.

“I’ll go pack my things,” Harry says, voice barely coming out over a whisper.

Sebastian swallows, and says nothing, eyes watching him as he walks out of the room.

*

Harry finds the Duke’s crumpled business card in the pocket of his trousers, left from when the butler had slipped it to him upon leaving Luxembourg. At the time, Harry had no qualms of ever using it and nearly tossed it out the window in disgust. Now, not even two weeks later, he finds himself dialling the number.  

He waits to be transferred, and the French music that fills the line does nothing to soothe Harry’s nerves. Ten minutes later, when the Duke finally answers, Harry skips the formalities. “I want twenty-five thousand.”

There’s a long pause, and Harry wonders if he can hear the steady thump-de-thump of his pulse. It’s been two days now, and Harry’s not sure if Sebastian’s even been home yet, if he told them what really transpired.

There’s a long pause before The Duke clears his throat, and says, “I’ll transfer you to my assistant. Provide her with your banking information.

Harry isn’t given the chance to reply before there’s a click on the line, transfer music cutting back in.


	5. iv.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _part four continued_

 

Harry spends his first month in Doncaster on the couch. He alternates between sleeping, eating junk and watching trashy TV. Every three days he’ll shower and change his clothes.

He’s seen the lads a few times; Zayn considerably more than the rest as he was the only one who stayed back, taking English at the local college. Niall and Liam both came to visit during the last weekend of May, but they wouldn’t officially be back from University until early July. It’s weird for Harry to think that only three years ago it was the five of them, inseparable, only for them to detach and take root apart from each other. He figured that at least Liam and Zayn would stick together, rooming at Manchester U, but Zayn had bailed last minute. He claimed it was funds, but Harry has an inkling that it had a lot more to do with not wanting to leave his mum and sisters.

Harry hasn’t asked about Louis, and certainly hasn’t talked to him himself. He assumes that Louis will be back for summer vacation like the rest of them, and Harry’s not entirely sure how he’ll be able to avoid him for two whole months. Harry is scared now more than ever. Scared that all it will take is a look and a few words, and he’ll be that pathetic, fawning teenager again. He doesn’t want Louis to see how hopelessly in love with him he still is.

Of course, Louis does come back, but thankfully it’s not until the end of July, two weeks before Harry’s plane ticket to Tokyo. Two weeks - he can manage that.

Four days in, Harry gets a text, and he knows that it’s Louis before he even looks at it. _Hey I’m in Donny! We should catch up! :) xx_

Harry doesn’t reply. He knows he’s being a child, but he’s at a loss for what else to do. There’s nothing simultaneously more tempting and dangerous than simply ‘catching up’ with Louis.

By no surprise, Zayn is the only one who says anything directly (“You should see him, Harry. It’s almost been two years. He keeps asking about you.”), but Niall and Liam never fail to invite him out with them, no matter how often he feigns illness.

The night before Harry leaves for Japan, all three of them come over to his place to play videogames and indulge in a triple-layered cake baked by his mum. Without missing the opportunity, Zayn says, “You should really invite Louis, mate. It’s getting annoying how often he asks about you.”

Harry blatantly ignores him while powering up his Wii, FIFA menu appearing on screen. He also ignores the fact that this alone is like cheating on Louis.

Later on that night, once everyone’s gone home and Japan is looming by a few mere hours, something changes, shifts inside his chest. Since he plans on being in Japan for Christmas, it’s likely that he won’t get another chance to see Louis until the following summer. This _should_ be a good thing - surely after three years of not seeing someone, you’d get over them once and for all. Yet, even though up until two hours ago nothing seemed more stupid than seeing Louis, Harry suddenly feels ill at the idea.

It’s one in the morning, and Harry has a flight at nine. He hates himself for being so stubborn, so dumb. How had he managed to convince himself not to see Louis when that’s all he’s wanted since the moment he walked out of the house party nearly two years ago? He blames Sebastian for turning him bitter.

He grabs his phone from his bedside table, staring at the lock screen for three minutes before staring at an empty text for even longer. He figures it’s all pretty pointless. Louis will wake up tomorrow morning, Harry halfway to Japan, and wonder what the hell he had wanted.

 _Hi_ , is all Harry says, and the feeling of stupidity is instantaneous once he presses send.

Harry spends the next ten minutes mortified, and hopes that if he curses the ceiling enough, the text will magically unsend itself. Fifteen minutes later, he opens his conversation to Louis just in case, and sure enough his _hi_ is the last to be sent. It’s miniscule and innocent in it’s small, blue bubble, but to Harry it might as well be an I LOVE YOU with an array of hearts and smiley faces.

He groans, muffling the sound as he bites into his pillowcase, and throws his phone onto the mattress next to him. As if that did the trick, a sound emanates from it. Harry jumps, scrambling to untangle it from the sheets, wondering if it was all in his head. He stares down at Louis’ reply of, _hello :)_ , and nearly cries out in relief.

Harry hates how his chest flares at that stupid smiley face.

He types and deletes his response nearly ten times before sending, _I’m going to Japan tomorrow_ , and realizes it’s one of the most ridiculous things he could’ve said.  

_I know_

_I’m sorry I didn’t see you_

_It’s ok I understand_

Harry takes a deep breath and presses his phone against his chest, staring up at the ceiling. How is he supposed to ask Louis if he wants to see him at one-thirty in the morning?

After a minute he says, _what are you doing?_ Plain, simple, unassuming. He can do this.

_Just finished watching a movie with mum_

Harry stares at his phone, clueless as to where to go next. He doesn’t have much time to think, however, when another message appears on screen. _I can come over??_

And then, another. _If you want??_

Harry gulps. He wants, he wants, but. He quickly types, _ok_ , and then kicks his phone to the end of the bed as if it was the one that brainwashed him into doing such a stupid, stupid thing.

He thrashes in bed for the next five minutes, anxiety buzzing underneath his skin, forming knots inside his stomach. He’s weighing the level of stupidity of seeing Louis against not seeing him, and he can’t seem to come to a conclusive answer.

When he forces himself out of bed, there’s two messages on his phone. _Be there soon_ , and one sent a minute ago that says, _Out back_.

Harry scrambles to locate his sweatpants and shirt on the ground, using his phone as a light. It takes him far too long to find something clean that isn’t already packed, his shaking hands making the task no easier. This all feels too familiar, and he hates the way his chest heaves at the thought. Three years later, and he can still remember it like it was yesterday. He can feel Louis’ lips against his, fingers on his skin, and hates the way it grabs at his heart and pools in his gut. Hate that it’s something he still thinks about. Something that he, _God Forbid_ , even still hopes for.

Louis’ sitting on his patio once he finally makes it outside, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the sky.

The first thing Harry says is, “You smoke cigarettes?” and then flinches once he realizes.

“I guess.” Louis shrugs as Harry sits across from him. He focuses on keeping his breath even, reminding himself that it’s only Louis. Louis, Louis, Louis, just his best mate from school. That’s all. Harry can’t think about how he’s spent three years of his life, kissing and sleeping with other people, always wanting it to be him. He can’t think about how his voice is so deep and perfect, and that he looks so attractive in his oversized hoody and ruffled hair, jaw stronger. He can’t think about how he stole his heart and never returned it.

Louis is staring at him expectantly, and Harry blinks, flushing. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted one. A cigarette.” He waves the pack in front of him as if Harry needs clarifying.  

He shakes his head, picking at his lip, and hopes Louis’ can’t see how red he is in the shadows of the night. “Sorry I took so long.”

“It’s okay, I drove.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and they fall into silence.

Harry hates how good he looks. A very small part of him hoped that Louis had suddenly grown a giant nose, or an unflattering mole. There’s scruff, but it only makes him look better, and Harry wants to reach out and touch it. He wonders if Louis thinks he looks good.

“You’ve been home for awhile?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, two months.”

He nods, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Sick of it already?”

Harry shrugs, offering a small smile as an answer.

“You liked Paris though, yeah?”

“Yeah, it was nice.”

“You and your boyfriend broke up?”

Harry nibbles on his lip, skin ripped and raw. “Yeah,” he says, and then for some reason throws in, “he was a prince,” which confuses him because he hasn’t told anyone besides his own mum. Not even the lads know much more than Sebastian's name, and even that Harry was hesitant to give.

Louis chokes on smoke, a grey cloud billowing into the night air. He puts it out in the ashtray before straightening himself up, and repeating, “A prince?”

“Of Luxembourg, yeah. Like his parents lived in a real castle and everything.”

Louis laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “No shit, you gave a life of royalty up?”

Harry shrugs again, and Louis says no more.

“And now it’s Japan.”

“Yeah.”

“Find yourself a rich business man?” Louis smirks, teasingly.

“Maybe,” Harry says, forcing a smile back. “Although, I’m teaching English at a community college, so I’m not sure how many of those I’ll be meeting.”

Louis nods, eyes fixed on Harry, as if searching for something different, some hidden clue. Harry feels his cheeks heat once more, and he darts his eyes away, finding fascination with the shadow of the oak tree. “How’s school?”

“Okay. Hard,” Louis says, admittedly.

Harry snorts. “Yeah, I bet.”

He figures the nice thing to do would be to ask about his boyfriend, but that sounds almost as painful as going over his break-up with Sebastian, so he doesn’t. He already knows they’re still dating anyway, from when he overheard Zayn, Liam and Niall talking about him earlier that summer. Harry was in the kitchen preparing tea when he heard Louis’ name. Part of him wanted to plug his ears and run outside where he couldn’t hear, but the other, more dominant part stayed behind the doorframe and strained to hear. Apparently he had come to Doncaster with Louis during Christmas, which was news to Harry. He had never been more thankful over his decision to go to Paris than in that moment.

“I can’t believe they’re still together,” Niall said, which Zayn replied, “I can. I mean, Louis’ always has the upper hand this way.”

There was some snickering before Liam said, “Lads, come on. Haven’t we had enough? Harry will hear.”

Harry blushed at that, embarrassed that Louis’ boyfriend was hushed behind his back, as if assumed that simply hearing his name would send Harry into a meltdown. After the embarrassment faded, he realized he was a little bit too pleased with their seeming dislike towards him - whatever his name is.

There’s a pause between Louis and him, neither of them knowing where to go now that the formalities are over, so Harry pretends to be fascinated by the stars, running his sweaty palms over his thighs.

The last time they saw each other was two New Year’s ago, back when Harry had yelled and stormed out on him. When he flung out his entire soul all over Louis, admitted things he hadn’t even really admitted to himself. He doesn’t know how to go on pretending that that never happened. They never talked about it, not properly. There’s only been postcards, and two strained phone calls. Harry doesn’t know how to pretend that he hasn’t spent the past three years walking around as if missing a limb, or a giant space in his ribcage. He wonders if Louis feels it too, wonders if he thinks about it as frequently and fervently as Harry.  

“I’m glad you texted.”

“Yeah. I just - ” Harry shrugs, not knowing how to tell him that he was scared Louis would take one look at him and know that, for him, nothing changed.

Louis nods like he understands, but Harry’s not sure that he does.

“Look,” Louis says eventually, eyebrows furrowing together, “I know I’ve said this before, but I just - I’m really sorry, Harry, for how everything went down.”

Harry’s mouth feels dry, head thick and heavy. “It was a really long time ago, Louis. I already forgave you.”

Louis looks up at him with a genuinely surprised expression. “Really? But why? I certainly don’t deserve it.”

Harry shrugs, offering a small smile. “Maybe not, but I did anyways.”

Louis wraps his arms around himself, looking small in his over-sized sweater. Harry wishes he could close the distance between them, snuggling into his side. He looks doubtful over Harry’s forgiveness as he says, “I’m not going to kid myself into thinking that we’ll ever be proper mates again.”

Harry looks at him, and Louis stares back with wide, honest eyes. “Of course we’re mates,” he says. “Even when I hated you, you were still my mate.”

“Really?” When Louis smiles, wide and vibrant, Harry can’t help but grin back.

“Yeah.” He nods. His head is clearing, slowly but surely. He can breathe.

Louis grins, and when he sits up, something in the air changes. Even before Louis speaks, Harry feels himself become a little more at ease, the air between them thinner. It’s as if that’s all that was needed for the unfamiliar chapter they’ve been stuck on for so long has been ripped out to be started fresh. Harry feels it anyway, and he can see it in the hidden crevices of Louis’ smile, even if only for the night.

“Okay then,” Louis says, “fill me in on the last three years of your life. I want to know all about it.”

“Wow, that’s quite a bit of pressure.”

Louis shrugs loosely. “I want to know, and as a mate I should have this right.”

Harry chuckles, raising his palms in defeat. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Well, I really enjoyed living in London. Made some pretentious friends and spent a lot of time at pubs. And then there was my boyfriend, Dagon, who ended up being a total arse, but I have to owe it to him though because it was his idea to go travelling, and who knows if I ever would’ve gone myself.” Louis nods along, but doesn’t ask for more details on Dagon. Harry is thankful as he doesn't necessarily feel like divulging the details as to how a month into their trip, he came back from the beach in Barcelona to see that his bags were gone. “I mean, yeah, I don’t know. I spent time in France, Italy, Spain, Switzerland, Amsterdam, Sweden, Germany, Prague, Turkey, even Greece for awhile. Saw a lot of cool things, met a lot of great people, had my share of shitty experiences. Saw a lot of cathedrals, ate a lot of gelato, took a lot of trains. I worked in a few places, at farms and markets and bars and stuff.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I see you’re just as shit at telling stories. You were travelling around for almost a year. Surely, you must have some interesting stories. Indulge the poor, sheltered Uni student.”

Harry racks his brains for a story that he would even want to tell Louis that doesn’t involve monuments and museums by day, and puking in the alley of a foreign city at night. Before he can think of anything, Louis says, “Surely you broke a share of hearts along the way.”

“Maybe. Though you say it like I should be proud.” It’s true though, Harry had. Travellers and locals alike that treated Harry as if he single-handedly hung the moon. There was Javier in Madrid, Matthew in Rome, Jonathon in Zurich, Ryan in Turkey and Prague, and even Paige in Munich, the only girl he’s ever slept with. The only way he differed from Dagon was that he said goodbye to them, though usually not much more. Harry may have had his share of hurt, but these faces alone prove that he’s not the innocent victim he sometimes makes himself to be. Though, Harry draws the differences in them to the fact that they hardly knew him, they weren’t given the chance to find the part of Harry that makes it so easy to walk away.

“No, I just bet that you have people falling in love with you daily.”

Harry flushes, and says, “Are you trying to compliment me?”

Louis laughs. “A little, maybe."

Harry ducks a little, thankful that his pink skin is hidden in the dark. “I don’t like hurting people,” he says.

There’s a noticeable lightness in Louis’ voice as he says, “I know that. You’re one of the softest people I’ve ever known, which is why I assume you often have people falling in love with you.”

“Soft?” Harry questions. “Isn’t that a bad thing?”

Louis shakes his head, smiling. “No, I’ve always admired it in you.”

Harry ducks further, sure his embarrassment is visible.

Louis changes the subject back by saying, “So, why did you decide to come back when you did?”

“Well,” Harry starts, deciding to be honest, “It wasn’t all this enlightening cultural experience, where I grew into myself and figured out who I was. Don’t get me wrong, I did do a lot of that stuff. But I also spent a lot of time… partying, I guess. For every historical monument or beautiful view I saw, there was a club or a festival or parade. There was some alcohol and drugs and waking up in random places with strangers. I got really good at keeping busy all day while hungover and on four hours of sleep. I spent the last two months in Berlin, and I got a little too out of hand. Eventually it caught up to me, and I knew I had to go home to like, straighten out and sleep for a month straight. And then I went to Paris.”

“Wow,” Louis says. “Can’t say I’m that surprised though. I always knew you had a crazy side hidden under all that innocent demure.”

Harry wonders if that includes being high on ecstasy for a week straight or having sex with more people than he can remember. Harry doesn’t ask, instead he smirks, and says, “You caught me.” He sits up, raising an eyebrow at Louis. “Now it’s your turn.”

Louis snorts. “That was hardly a substantial three year summary of your life.”

“Well, you already know about my royal boyfriend, and that year twelve was awful, and that I was dating Chris who you also know is a complete tosser.”

Louis nods in allowance. “Alright. You make a point there. Though I look like a hypocrite because I don’t have much to say at all, unless you want some lessons on med.”

“Come on. You’re in a city that isn’t Doncaster. You have friends, and a - boyfriend.” He frowns, embarrassed, hoping the last part didn’t sound as strained as it felt.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he says, “though more like secondary than you’d think. My closest friends are girls though, which is a change. Well, besides William.” Even Louis sounds a little uncomfortable bringing him up, as if treading on thin ice. It might make more sense on his end if Harry hadn’t just alluded to sleeping with his share of strangers. He figures Louis’ year-long relationship is slightly less condemning. A _year_ relationship, Christ.

In order to mask his irrational jealousy, Harry asks as casually as he can, “Yeah, how are you two?”

A brief look of surprise comes across Louis’ face before he’s blinking it away. “Good. Yeah, good. Can hardly believe I’ve been in a relationship for so long sometimes. He wants me to officially move in, and like, I basically already am, but yeah, I don’t know yet.”

Harry nods and inhales slowly through his mouth.

“It’s kind of tricky because his parents pay for the flat, and he’s not out to them. Crazy religious types and that,” he explains. “We actually only came out as a couple to all our friends just before Christmas, so that’s been - interesting. Especially since I came out myself my first year there. It all felt so sneaky and complicated, like we were teenagers. It’s like I went back a step.”

Harry has no idea what to say besides, “Oh, wow. That’s difficult,” and he instantly feels stupid.

Louis shrugs, some of the discomfort returning. “Yeah, well. It’s better now.”

Harry swallows, and says, “Yeah, good.”

“Yeah, it’s hilarious, I’ve had the same dorm-mate for two years and we’ve probably never had more than three proper conversations,” he says. “It’s even funnier if you see how small our room is.”

Harry wants to kiss him for the abrupt change of subject.

After that, William is not brought up again. They continue to chat as if nothing’s changed, and it’s not until the dark starts to lift, a hint of the emerging sun on the horizon, that Harry realizes just how long they’ve been talking. “Shit, it’s four thirty,” he tells Louis once he checks his phone. “I have to leave for the airport in an hour and a half half.”  

Louis raises his eyebrows in surprise, and says, “Well, I guess there’s no point in sleeping now.” He smiles, leaning back leisurely in the patio chair. “You might as well keep on hanging out with me until then.”

Harry laughs, already knowing no isn’t an answer.

Louis ends up sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him pack the rest of his stuff. Over his time of travelling, Harry has learned that all necessities in life can be fit into one bag. Anything more, and he feels too tied down, still too attached to himself and life in Doncaster.

Once Harry pulls the final zipper, he looks up at Louis, chest heavy. It’s only been one night, but Harry doesn’t know how he’s supposed to leave him again. For the first time in three years, they’re given the chance for a proper goodbye, but Harry doesn’t want it. Being around Louis feels like a necessity, but Harry knows there’s no way to stuff him into his bag or carry him around his wrist. Harry looks at his blue eyes, the soft curve of his lips, his small body, his ankles peaking out from under his sweatpants, and he wishes it didn’t have to be like this. In and out of each other’s lives, never knowing when the next time they’d see each other, or where or who they’d be.

Harry looks at Louis, and wants to say, “I’m still in love with you, you know,” but he doesn’t. Instead, he bites his tongue and forces a sad smile. His alarm reads 6:34, red numbers harsh and uninviting. He can hear his mum up in the kitchen.

“Well, I hope Japan treats you well,” Louis says.

“Same for you and Oxford.”

Louis smiles, and whether Harry imagines it or not, he sees a sadness to it as well. He stands up, looking at Harry expectantly.

Getting the hint, Harry pulls himself off the floor, stepping over his bag to close the distance between them. There’s no hesitation as they both fall into a hug, arms wrapped close like a messy present. Louis smells exactly like he remembers, sweet and warm, like home.

“This kind of sucks,” Louis mumbles into his shoulder.

Harry laughs, and nods, nose nestled between his hair and ear. “Kind of, yeah.”

“We’re good now though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Great.”

When his mum comes downstairs to get him, they still haven’t let go.

*

Turns out, Harry does meet a rich business man after all.

A few of the girls from work brought him to an upscale lounge, insisting they almost always find men to buy their drinks and sometimes, even dinner (“and like, maybe a designer bag if you, you know, go out with them a few times,” one said, raising her eyebrows suggestively, which raised squeals and slaps from the rest of them. “What?! They’re rich business men in nice suits! It’s not gross! Some of them are pretty darn hot for being middle-aged and Asian.”) Harry agreed to go, although with the intention of buying his own overpriced cocktails.

He didn’t end up buying his own though, or the three after that, and that’s how he ends up in a fancy hotel room with Japanese man named Tarou. He is middle-aged, but attractive and speaks English well enough that Harry doesn’t feel too bad about it.

He expects that to be it, but then there’s more drinks, dinners, theatre shows. Harry isn’t quite sure what keeps him agreeing, especially since Tarou is married with children, and Harry never much saw himself for the mistress type.

It starts with a Gucci belt, then a Louis Vuitton wallet, a bag, another bag, watches, necklaces, clothing, and within two months of meeting him, he finds himself in a penthouse suite overlooking Tokyo.

It’s okay in the beginning. Harry even quits his job in order to keep Tarou company on business trips. He takes him to Okinawa for the weekend, where Harry gets to lounge in the white sand and read books while being served by an army of diligent staff. Harry very pointedly never asks him about his wife and kids. He knows enough by the way Tarou’s face darkens and he excuses himself from the table as soon as a certain ring-tone sounds.

Yet, there’s times when Harry won’t see Tarou for days, sometimes only appearing for an hour for dinner and a quick fuck before rushing off to his next meeting. Harry will float about the suite, watching Japanese television and ordering room service, trying not think about how lonely he feels. Occasionally, he’ll go out with his old teacher friends, but they tease him, asking for all the dirty details and Harry finds that every time he leaves, the ache in his chest grows deeper.

He doesn’t dare tell anyone back home, instead reusing teaching stories from his friends. He knows he’s not a whore, knows that him and Tarou are in some kind of messed up relationship. He knows he’s the only one - besides his wife, of course. Despite it all, Harry sees the way Tarou looks at him, and he knows he’s respected, even if on some level. He knows how it sounds though. He knows how he feels every time the door shuts behind Tarou, the wave of nausea that rolls through him, stronger each time.

He receives a few texts from Louis, even a phone call, but Harry ignores them all. It’s already hard enough lying to his family and friends, never mind Louis who he’s sure would hear it all over his voice. Eventually, Louis stops trying and Harry tries not to feel worse.

A week before Christmas, Tarou stops in after a business trip, only long enough to fuck him. Afterwards, he presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek and a Rolex in his hand before heading to the airport to meet his family. Tarou says it’s a Christmas gift, but for the first time Harry thinks, I really am a whore.  

As soon as the door shuts behind Tarou, Harry runs into the washroom and throws up. Not a single thought is being processed as he pulls his Armani suitcases from the closet, shoving all his things inside - designer clothes, bags, shoes, electronics.

He calls a taxi, and leaves without a note.


	6. v.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairings:** louis tomlinson/OMC (main: louis tomlinson/harry styles, side: zayn malik/perrie edwards)  
>  **warnings:** there will be some sensitive subject matter dealing with mental illness in this chapter. if you want more details on what to expect or any possible triggers, please scroll to the authors notes at the bottom.

_ v. louis _

Louis’ in the kitchen grabbing another beer when hears an eruption of overzealous greetings in the adjoining room. His first assumption is that it’s someone else he doesn’t know, but then Niall’s squealing, and Louis knows he doesn’t make that noise for just anyone. He freezes, one hand on his beer and the other on the bottle opener, straining to hear through the muffled chatter. He knows it’s most likely not. He’s still in Japan, and Louis is definitely working himself up for no reason.

But then, Liam’s yelling and Louis catches a very distinct, “Harry!” and his stomach drops to his toes.

Louis’ not sure what he should be doing. Should he run out and greet him too? He thinks that might be a bit too forward for someone that’s been ignoring him for six months, so he stays in the kitchen, sipping on his beer a lot quicker than he was planning to.

He’s halfway through the bottle, thinking about what would’ve happened had William come with him, when Harry enters with Zayn, an entire case of beer tucked under one giant arm. Louis feels faint.

Harry stops and Louis blinks, and they proceed to stand there for a minute longer, only staring at each other. Zayn takes the beer from Harry’s with both hands, chatting away in oblivion. Louis realizes that he’s smiling, probably has been since Harry walked in, and then Harry’s smiling back, dimples and all. He looks worlds different than he did at sixteen, even nineteen, but those dimples remain, reminding Louis that not everything changes.

Louis’ so happy to see him that he can’t even be angry that Harry hasn’t spoken to him since he left in July.

Once they’ve smiled at each other long enough, Louis’ realizes Zayn is rambling on about his and Perrie’s tenant’s insurance while unloading Harry’s cans into the fridge. It occurs to Louis that Zayn isn’t oblivious at all, but more likely too aware. For some reason, Louis never told anyone about seeing Harry this past summer, and by the looks of it, Harry hadn’t either. Which means Zayn, Niall and Liam all think they haven’t seen each other since the New Year’s party nearly three years ago.

Once Zayn’s done filling the fridge, he turns to face Louis, hand on his neck. “Hi Louis.”

“Hi Zayn.” Louis smirks, then turns back to Harry, nodding his head in proper greeting. “Hi Harry.”

“Hey Lou,” he says, not allowing Louis the chance to blink as he rushes forward, wrapping his long arms around Louis.

The hug is feeble on Louis’ end, too shocked to register what is happening until Harry is pulling away. Zayn appears even more confused than Louis feels. He looks between them like he might say something, but then opts for handing Harry a beer silently. Harry thanks him, and the tips of Louis’ ears feel like they might burn off. Harry hugged him after not speaking to him for five months, and all he could do was stand there, giving him a one-armed back pat. Christ, he might as well have given him a bro shake.

“Harry just got back from Japan,” Zayn tells Louis like he doesn’t already know, and Harry and him play along, nodding at each other like they don’t.  

“How’s Tokyo?” Louis asks.

Harry shrugs. “Not for me.”

Louis nods, fingers rung tight around his bottle head. Zayn looks between them with furrowed eyebrows, even more confused.

There’s a pause, and then Zayn’s standing up straight, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Well, okay. Uh, I think we were about to start a game or something. So, yeah.” He begins to awkwardly inch towards the door, looking at them expectantly.

Louis looks at Harry, who shrugs, a smirk on his lips. “Lead the way, Zayney,” he says, and for some annoying reason, Louis giggles.

Harry hangs back as Zayn leads them through the crowded flat to the living room. He’s smiling at Louis, his big, dorky grin, and Louis wonders if he was texting the wrong number all along. He’s confused as to why one moment Harry was saying they were still mates, to blatantly ignoring him for months on end, to now acting like none of it had happened at all. Louis’ confused if he’s allowed to mad. Harry said they were mates, but maybe that didn’t mean what he thought it did.

“How’s it going?” Harry asks.

“Good.” Louis nods, taking a sip of his fresh beer. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, unfinished, just as Perrie comes skipping up to them, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulder.

“Hiya there, Harry. Fancy seeing you here,” she says. “Where’s the Harajuku outfit? I’m extremely disappointed.”  

“That’s for later.” Harry winks.

She laughs, pulling him in for a proper hug, platinum hair pressed against his cheek. Louis wishes he could redo his own hug. Then again, maybe not because he’s mad. Or is he mad? He doesn’t even know.

Harry makes his way around the room instead of talking to Louis and offering an explanation. Louis tries really hard not to stare, instead focusing on his conversation with Zayn and his friend from school. Even though Louis’ seen him a few times now, he’s still finding it incredibly hard to connect this Harry to the one that would jump on his back and demand piggybacks, and write silly poems all over his notebook. He’s so big now - lines of his muscles evident underneath his white t-shirt, black skinny jeans clinging to legs that any girl would be envious over. He watches Harry bend down and hug a girl who’s close to Louis’ height, wrapping his arms around her until she nearly disappears. He looks so humongous in comparison that it causes Louis to feel slightly dizzy.

He remembers when he was able to hover over Harry, those legs around his waist, and -

Louis coughs, face heating. He forces his attention back on the conversation just as Alex is slapping Zayn’s back and saying, “You domesticated man!”

Zayn shrugs with a bashful expression, and Louis’ just thankful that he’s been too busy making heart-eyes over Perrie to notice him staring after Harry.

Louis met Perrie for the first time last winter, just a few months after they had started dating. Louis knew right away, just by looking at Zayn look at her, that this was it. While he was surprised to hear they were moving in together after nine months, he figures Zayn was just as surprised to hear about his own change in living arrangements.

This time when he sneaks another glance at Harry, he’s staring right back at him. Louis instantly diverts his gaze, scanning the room as if that was his plan the entire time. He feels like such a teenager.

Alex excuses himself to the bathroom, and Zayn doesn’t miss a beat before he turns to Louis and says, “So, you and Harry?”

Louis shrugs, trying to appear casual as he takes a sip from his drink. He tries not to think about how hard his heart is beating over a simple sentence like _you and Harry_. “We’re good. We saw each other over the summer.”

“What? Why is this the first that I’m hearing about it, you wanker?”

Louis shrugs once again, and could not be more thankful when Perrie picks that moment to announce that it’s game time. Zayn shoots him a look that says, ‘You’re not getting away with this just yet!’ but Louis sends him an innocent smile and scurries away.

All twenty of them squeeze into a circle in the middle of their tiny living room, furnitures pushed to the walls. Harry’s sitting directly across from him, and Louis focuses on picking at his beer label.

Everyone laughs as they agree to relive their teenage years by playing Never Have I Ever. It starts off fairly tame, saying things like, “Never have I ever gotten a speeding ticket,” or “never have I ever left the UK,” but as everyone becomes increasingly more tipsy, so do they become more scandalous.

Louis’ and Harry’s eyes catch a few times, but Louis is always quick to look away. Now that there’s four beers buzzing in his system though, he keeps them there, only for Harry to send him a smile, eyes crinkled. Louis smiles stupidly back at him, head ducked. He doesn’t know if he should be mad, but what he does know is that he couldn’t be anyway.

“Never have I ever… had a threesome,” a girl Louis doesn’t recognize says, giggling behind her cooler.

There’s a murmur of awkward giggles until a girl and a guy quietly take a sip from their drink. Louis nearly chokes when Harry raises his own drink to his lips.

He feels his entire body burn hot, trying hard not to let that image trickle into his head. He very purposely does not look anywhere near Harry’s vicinity for the next five minutes, until his pulse has cooled and his head is cleared.

Harry ends up drinking quite a bit - sex in the washroom, sex outdoors, blowjob from a stranger, sex with a girl - and Louis’ sex life suddenly seems very, very bland. He’s torn between feeling turned on and incredibly jealous, and he hates that he feels either.

“Okay, okay, my turn!” Niall says, clapping his hands together excitedly. He scans the circle before landing on Louis, a devious twinkle in his eye. Louis thinks, oh shit, and starts to sink into himself before Niall even opens his mouth. “Never have I ever shagged someone in this room.”

Louis’ heart rate jumps so rapidly that he temporarily fears a heart attack. The obvious people drink, the couples that came together and the known hook-ups from secondary. Then it’s just him and Harry staring at each other while it feels like everyone else is staring at them. His skin is prickling, and he’s planning on ignoring it all together when Harry shrugs and takes a sip. He keeps his eyes locked with Louis’ as he drinks, and when he lowers it, Louis thinks, fuck it, and raises his own bottle to his lips.

“I knew it!” Niall cries. “I always knew you two were shagging!”

“Hey,” Harry says, coyly, “it could’ve been someone else in this room.”

Niall laughs. “Yeah, right, we all know if there were anyone else in this room you would’ve shagged besides Lou, it would’ve been me, and well, it wasn’t.”

Louis’ cheeks manage to grow even hotter, gut twisting. And oh god, was that jealousy? He needs to leave his game, get some fresh air, and call William.

“If you say so, mate,” Harry says, shrugging. Louis catches the smirk on his face, and he doesn’t know whether he’d rather punch him or kiss him.

The game doesn’t last much longer, which is good for Louis’ as his levels of concentration are nearly nonexistent. The alcohol mixed with Harry’s heavy gaze is leaving it extremely hard for Louis to think about much else other than skin and lips and curls, Harry’s fingers in his, whispered I love you’s. Louis wants to die.

He escapes out onto the balcony as soon as they break apart. He takes five minutes to get his thoughts back in order, and just as he’s about to call William, Harry steps outside. He squeezes in next to him, elbow against the railing, brushing against Louis’ arm. “Hi. Feel like company?”

Louis looks at him, takes in his smell and his curls and the light reflecting from his eyes. Everything in him screams, _I miss you_. Screams, _why the hell do you keep leaving?_ “Hi. Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Sorry for ignoring me since July?” Louis asks, the words out of his mouth before he can realize. He holds his breath and looks at Harry expectantly.

Harry sighs, and leans over the balcony, looking down at the snowy street below. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that as well.”

Louis waits for an explanation, and when none come, he says, “So, did I do something? I mean, you said we were mates and I thought we had a really good talk.”

“We did,” Harry says instantly, tilting his head to look Louis in the eye. “It wasn’t you. I was just in this weird place, and I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. I’m sorry I handled it by ignoring you. If you don’t want to talk to me, I totally understand.”

“No,” Louis says, shaking his head, “I’m sick of fighting with you.”

Harry’s eyes soften. “Me too.” He waits a beat, and says, “I’m also sorry for basically telling the entire party that we had sex.”

Louis shrugs, face heating. “Don’t be. It - yeah. It’s just a game, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” He breaks, frowning, before trying again, “I guess it’s just a little - weird, is all. Since, you know, we haven’t even really talked about it.”

“We’ve talked about it.”

“Hardly,” Harry says. “More like danced around it. Or I guess there was that time where I yelled at you.”

They laugh even though the memory is anything but funny. “Yeah, but like, it happened almost four years ago, so…” Louis wouldn’t even know how to address this issue on a regular day, never mind when there’s alcohol and Harry clouding his brain, Harry so close and smelling of home.

Harry picks at the chipping paint on the railing, eyebrows knotted together. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“I mean, what’s there to really say?” Louis says, softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Harry raises his head, looking him directly in the eye. “For what it’s worth,” he smiles, leaning closer, voice dropped just above a whisper, “you were still my best.”

His words are like a brick, knocking the wind straight out of Louis’ chest. All he can do is laugh obnoxiously, and avoid Harry’s eyes. “You’re drunk.”

Harry laughs, shaking his head. He says nothing else, but his words stay lodged inside Louis’ chest. Surely it’s not true. They both were inexperienced virgins - Louis didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He always assumed it wasn’t as good for Harry as it was for him, as it wouldn’t have taken a whole lot for it to be. Yet here Louis is with years more experience and a steady partner, and while it’s not something he would ever want to admit out loud, there is no comparison to what he had with Harry. No matter how badly he’s wanted to find it, and tried for it time and time again, nothing comes close. He often feels guilty because there he is with a boyfriend of two years whom he loves, yet no matter how many times or how they do it, something is never quite right. It’s been embarrassing too, thinking he was chasing after his teenage experience, but to hear it now from Harry loosens something inside his chest.

The patio door opens and Niall steps out, squeezing between them as he hands them both a beer. “Happy New Year’s, lads. So great to see you two getting on again. I always knew you two would sort it out soon enough.”

“Of course,” Harry says simply, taking a sip from his beer.

“So, you going to tell your good friend Niall all the dirty deets finally?”

“Yeah, right.” Louis snorts, the same time as Harry says, “Not a chance.”

“Ah, come on, lads. Not even how long it went on for? Who took it for the team, if you know what I mean?” He winks at Louis, and elbows Harry.

“Fuck off, mate,” Louis says while Harry laughs.

“Oi, it was you, wasn’t it?”

Louis shakes his head, laughing up at the sky. “I’m going inside,” he says, moving from between them to approach the door. “You can try and get it out of Harry.”

“Not happening.” He shoots Louis’ a grin, so wide and so bright that Louis loses oxygen.

William. He needs to talk to William.

Louis locks himself in Zayn and Perrie’s room, taking a seat on the edge of their bed before dialling William’s number. The clock on the nightstand reads 11:03. Louis doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, or how he might react. The thing is, they were supposed to come here together. They had spent Christmas together in Oxford, much to his mother’s dismay, and they were supposed to come out to Doncaster together early this morning to attend the party and then spend the next day having another Christmas with his family. But then, they had gotten into a fight. Louis’ can’t even remember how it started. Something stupid and insignificant, he’s sure, like how Louis never listens, and then he was getting blamed for God knows what, like it was a bad thing that he had supportive family and friends. Somehow that turned into how they all supposedly hated William, and they argued back and forth until Louis said, “Fine, then don’t come!” in which, William replied, “Fine, I won’t!” and then there was Louis on the train an hour later, duffel packed full.

“Hi, Lou,” he says after the fifth ring, sounding exhausted.

“Hey, babe, did I wake you?”

“No, I was - No, you didn’t.”

“Are you - are you okay? Are you home?” Louis asks carefully.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was out with everyone for a bit, but then I left.”

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to call and say that I love you a lot and everything, you know? I’m sorry.”

William takes in a long breath of air, and Louis waits, anxiously. He had thought that by now he’d have a better read on him, but William’s reactions and moods are so sporadic, ranging from completely over the top, to too understanding, and everywhere in between.

“I know. I know. I love you. I’m sorry too.” William’s quiet, before saying, “I wish you were here though. It sucks spending New Year’s on my own.”

“I know, babe. I wish you were here too.” It’s not really a lie. Except, well, then things would be pretty weird and tense with Harry, and there’s always other New Year’s with William when there might not be with Harry, and well. Okay, it’s a lie.

“Is - ” William begins, then stops himself. There’s a long pause, and Louis waits for it, chewing on his lip. “You know what? Never mind. Just enjoy your night okay, love? I don’t want to fight. I’m too tired.”

“Okay, yeah, me neither,” Louis says, a little surprised. “Did you want me to call you at midnight?”

“No. No, it’s okay. I think I’m just going to go to bed. New Year’s isn’t a ton of fun without someone to kiss.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Louis laughs softly. “Well, Happy New Year’s, Will. I love you. Save a kiss for me.”

“You too, Lou. That kiss belongs to me, remember?” He’s just kidding, Louis knows that, but it all feels a little raw.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Bye babe, Happy New Year’s,” he says, and Louis’ not even sure he catches his reply before he hangs up.

Louis stays for a few more minutes, staring at his phone, unsure of to what to think. William is not the usual type to take getting abandoned on New Year’s well. It all went a little too easy, William sounding a little too tired, and Louis’ wonders what it will be like when he’s home.

Louis spots Harry almost immediately once he re-enters the party, engaged in what seems to be a pretty intense conversation with two girls on the sofa. Every inch of Louis feels pulled towards him, but instead he resists and wanders into the kitchen where he finds Zayn, Liam and Sophia.

Everyone migrates to the living room for the countdown, and he finds himself next to Harry, both of them pretending it was merely by chance.

Louis has even more beers in his system now, as he’s sure Harry does too, and everything is a little brighter and a little warmer. He’s here with his very best mates, and Harry. He’s here with Harry, about to ring in 2015, and everything just feels really, really good.

“10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5...”

Everyone’s pressed in close, but Harry feels even closer, bare arm against Louis’, fingers brushed against his wrist. His arm hairs feel tingly, and he wants to wrap himself around Harry, bury his face in his chest.

“4... 3... 2... 1... Happy New Year!”

The room erupts into cheers, so loud it feels like it’s coming from everywhere. Even Louis cheers before reaching for Harry, fingers brushing against his ear and lips against his cheek. He lingers longer than necessary, whispering, “Happy New Year’s, Haz,” into his ear before pulling back.

Harry’s eyes look so shiny. So fucking shiny that Louis can practically see the whole world inside. Harry circles his large fingers around Louis’ wrist, and squeezes. “Happy New Year’s, Boo.”

They look at each other until Louis’ feels like he has no air left to breathe, and then there’s people jumping on their backs, ruffling their hair and yelling. Harry’s fingers tug at his wrist, and then let go.

Louis hugs Zayn, Liam, and finally Niall. It all feels so good and normal and right, just like home. Like everything is exactly where it should be. Is that bad when he was a boy waiting for him? A boy that loves him?

Over Niall’s shoulder, Louis catches Harry smiling at him, raising his beer in a toast. Louis smiles, and presses his hand to his own wrist.

*

Louis wakes up at 11:30 the next morning with two texts from Harry. The first was sent at 9:00 and says, _hey so I know you were drunk when you invited me to come over today, so I just wanted to make sure it was alright?_ The second was from a little over an hour ago. _well I hope it is, because I’m coming over anyway._

Louis does remember asking him, or telling him, more like. It was nearly three, and they were saying their goodbyes, wrapped tight in a hug when Louis said, “Hey, so like, you should totally come over for my fake Christmas tomorrow. My mum would die. I’m sure she still loves you more than she loves me.”

Harry laughed, and said, “Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ll be there. Sure.”

Louis isn’t sure what he feels first. Whether it be excitement or fear or regret, or an overwhelming mix of all three, tied in with a steady headache and a wave of nausea. It’s fake Christmas, and Harry is going to be at his house. With him. Eating Christmas brunch and opening presents, and.

“Oh god,” Louis whines into his pillow.

Eventually, he pulls himself out of bed, throwing on joggers and a hoodie. When he gets downstairs, Harry is already sitting on his couch, talking to his mom and Dan. Fizzy is sitting next to him, hanging off every word, while the twins play a board game at his feet.  

No one notices him until he’s standing directly next to them. He clears his throat, feeling dizzy, and says, “Em, good morning?”

Harry gets up almost instantly, stepping around Phoebe and Daisy. He looks nervous as he runs a hand through his hair, unstyled and messy. He appears a lot younger than he did last night, in his own joggers and eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. It all feels too familiar, like Louis stepped back in time to his last year of secondary.

“Hey, good morning,” he says, and he’s sure the rest of his family say their own greetings, but Louis can only focus on Harry. “Merry Christmas,” he offers with a laugh, outstretching his arms almost cautiously.

Louis takes it, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist without hesitance. It’s a proper hug this time, and Louis feels warm all over. It’s fake Christmas and his family is here, lights twinkling and the air smelling of pine and pancakes, and then there’s Harry too. Louis’ trapped between feeling ridiculously happy, and feeling like he’s doing something horribly wrong.

When they pull apart, his mum is watching them with a smile so bright that Louis feels embarrassed.

They eat breakfast at the dining room table, pancakes and bacon and eggs that Harry helped make while Louis was still asleep. Harry sits next to him, heat radiating, and Louis tries not to think about how he was supposed to be William.

He catches his mum looking at him a few times, a curious expression as to why Harry showed up at their house after all these years, but Louis very blatantly looks away.

Eventually, she says, “Boys, I have to admit I’m extremely happy you two are getting along again.”

They blush, sneaking a quick glance at each other over their plates. Louis has no idea what to say, so Harry speaks for them. “Yeah,” he says softly, “so am I.”

“Your friendship was too special to just let slip away.”

Louis wonders if she has any idea just how special it actually was.

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling at Louis.

Louis looks down, ears burning, suddenly preoccupied with moving his last bit of pancake around on his plate.

Once they clear their plates, they spend the rest of the morning opening presents and playing one of the board games Daisy got. Harry’s warm next to him, thigh pressed against his. Louis tries extremely hard not to stare at him, or pull the beanie off his head and bury his face into his curls. It feels right with all of them together, like Harry was always meant to be here. He tries not to compare it to last Christmas when it was William in his place, when it all felt a little more tense and contrived. For one split moment he pretends Harry is his boyfriend, that later on they’ll return to their flat to watch TV and eat dinner, knowing that next year and the year after will be the same. As soon as the thought passes, Louis hates himself.

Harry loses the game by far, and Louis, never missing an opportunity to bug him, says, “Still awful at games, I see.”

Harry narrows his eyes and sticks out his tongue. “Shut it, Tomlinson. Maybe I let you win because I knew you’d still pout like a sore loser.”

“Excuse me?” Louis says with a gasp while the rest of his family laughs.

Harry looks to them, and asks, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Louis’ mum nods behind her hand, stifling a laugh.

Louis glares. “I hate you all.”

He feels a poke at his side, Harry grinning wildly at him. “See, there it is.”

Louis instinctively reaches out to grab onto his wrist, holding it tight. Harry looks at him with round eyes before Louis is dropping it, and places his hands back on his lap, cheeks burning. All hopes of no one witnessing is lost when he glances up to see his mum looking at them curiously.

Gemma had given Harry a ride earlier, so by four Louis offers to take him home. The goodbye process takes nearly a half an hour with three rounds of hugs from everyone and at least four new conversations started. By the time they make it down the driveway to his mum’s car, they both look at each other and smile. “Walk?” Harry asks, and Louis nods, smiling.

It’s a beautiful day, the late sun shining through the bare branches that line the street. Louis wraps his arms around himself, breath coming out in cold spurts. They walk in silence for the first few minutes, but it feels comfortable. Harry begins to hum ‘Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer’ and Louis can’t help but join in.

“So, where you off to next?” Louis asks him.

Harry looks at him, and laughs, eyes crinkled. “A bit presumptuous, huh?”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve already got a new place planned?”

Harry purses his lips together, holding back the grin. “Fine, yes,” he says with a bit of a grumble. “I’m going to America next month. Start in LA I think, then make my way around.”

“Ah, of course. The Americas.”

“Feel free to join,” he says. He’s smiling, but Louis wonders if there’s some seriousness behind his offer.

“Yeah, I wish. School calls.” He frowns, and as if it will make him feel less guilty for the past two days, he says, “Boyfriends. You know.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and keeps his eyes on the snow-covered sidewalk, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“Yeah. Yeah, right.” The silence drags between them, Louis fumbling for something else to say, when Harry asks, “And how’s that going? Your relationship, I mean.”

“Um, good. Yeah. I mean,” he stops, and shrugs.

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Louis kicks a snowball down the street, watches it explode. “It just gets hard sometimes. But, I mean, I guess all relationships do, right?”

“I guess.”

“We fight a lot, is all,” Louis says without meaning to. “He can be a little - sensitive, sometimes. I guess. I mean, I just feel like I can never do anything right, you know? Like I just make it worse. By being too insensitive. I don’t know, I just don’t get it.” He looks at Harry briefly, before immediately turning back to his feet. He never intended to bring William up at all, never mind word-vomit their issues all over him. He feels his cheeks heat, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have - It’s nothing, really. Just in a bit of a patch right now.”

“No,” Harry says quickly, “it’s okay. I don’t mind. I just - I don’t really have a whole bunch of healthy relationships stacked up behind me to give you much advice. Sex, on the other hand…” He laughs, sounding forced.

Louis’ gut twists, doesn’t force a laugh back. He really wishes Harry would stop bringing up all the alleged sex he's had. “We got in a fight before I came here, actually. He was supposed to come here with me.”

Harry looks over at him, and something passes over his expression so quickly that Louis’ can’t quite catch it. “Oh,” he says, and then, “That’s - too bad?” He scratches his head, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m awful at this.”

“It’s okay. I don’t even know why I’m sharing this with you,” Louis says, feeling his own embarrassment linger. “I guess it’s just - nice to be able to say it to someone.”

 “Yeah, of course.”

They turn onto Harry’s street, and Louis watches him wring his hands together, shoulders bunched to his ears. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink from the cold, and Louis wants to wrap his arms around him and blow raspberries into his cheek. He wishes he never brought William up, hates that he tarnished the last few minutes they might have together for a long while. Louis hates it when William brings up Harry, so why he thought it would be okay reversed is beyond him. It feels awkward now, like he just dropped a bomb on them, and he wants to go back to how it was an hour ago, when they were close together and warm from the fire, his family smiling around them. For a moment he wishes he could stay, that he didn’t have to go back to Oxford, to classes and his flat and uncertainty with William. He wishes he didn’t have to feel guilty all the time.

They come to a stop in front of Harry’s house, and Louis drops his hands from his pockets, letting them hang at his side. “Well.”

“Well,” Harry echoes, smiling small.

“Thanks for coming over.”

“Thanks for inviting me. It was really lovely,” Harry says. “I missed your family.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they were absolutely thrilled to have you there. Shocked, but thrilled. Fizzy’s been planning your wedding for years.”

Harry laughs, kicking some snow with his toe. “Well.”

“Well,” Louis echoes, and their eyes catch, grinning at each other. “It’ll probably be awhile before we end up in the same place again.”

“Probably.” Harry nods, his expression matching the disappointment Louis feels in his own chest. “Well, I mean,” Harry scratches behind his ear, head ducked, “I hope everything works out with you and - with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Yeah, thanks. I hope you have a blast in America.”

“Thanks.” They stop and stare at each other, cold breeze brushing through their hair. Louis isn’t ready to say goodbye again. Four years have lead up to this, and he’s not prepared to go another year, or three. What if Harry goes to America, meets someone, falls in love and decides to stay there? Then what? This was all too short for him to just disappear from the center of his life once again. Louis wants to tell him not to go, to stay, but who is he to ask that? And what would that even mean? That Harry would stay back while Louis returned to Oxford to be with his boyfriend? He doesn’t want to see Harry go, but he has no right to ask him to stay.

Harry extends his arms, bending his knees, and wraps his arms around Louis’ waist, pulling him into his chest. There’s no better word for it than Louis sinks, sinks into his arms and his chest, cheek against his heart. He wants to say he’s sorry, but he’s not sure for what anymore. “I’ll miss you,” Louis finds himself mumbling.

Louis can feel Harry inhale sharply, feel the rise in his chest, before he says, “Yeah, me too. I’ll miss you too, Lou.”

Once they pull apart, they face each other, still close. Close enough that Louis’ swears he can feel Harry’s hot breath against his forehead. For a brief second, Louis actually considers getting up on his tiptoes and kissing him, and by the way Harry is staring down at him, he thinks he might be considering it as well.

Louis snaps out of it, stepping back and out of Harry’s space. He feels instantly cold.

“Well, bye then, I guess.” Louis raises his hand in a wave, feeling pathetic as soon as he does.

“Yeah, bye.” Harry smiles, and it nearly warms Louis from where he stands. Harry reaches forward and Louis thinks he might be grabbing for his hand, but the last minute he balls it into a fist, holding it out for Louis to bump.

Louis complies, and they both duck their head, laughing and blushing when he does. “Okay, bye,” Louis says once more.

“Bye.” Harry grins so wide that his dimples nearly burrow holes into his cheeks. He looks so adorable with his beanie, cold cheeks and fluffy curls. Last night Louis had some very vivid thoughts about pushing him into a bed, and now all he wants to do is wrap him in a blanket and pet his hair. How is it that he still does this to him? How is it that he feels an ache so deep, so much more deeper now that he knows what he’s missing.

Harry is the one to turn first, heading up to his front door. For a brief moment Louis nearly runs after him. He reckons he could use the toilet, and then stick around and chat to his mother until he’s invited to stay over for dinner. He could, but.

Harry turns around once he reaches the door, and smiles, offering another wave.

Louis blinks, embarrassed that he’s still standing there, staring after him like an abandoned puppy. He ducks, waves, and turns on his heel. He freezes Harry in his mind like that, wrapped in a winter coat, pink dimples and a smile brighter than the snow. He pretends this won’t be the last time he’ll see him for a long, long time. He pretends it doesn’t sit shallow and heavy inside his chest. 

*

The flat is quiet when he returns. Too quiet. The lights are off, blinds are shut, and Louis can see the outline of dishes piling in the sink. There’s a faint smell, and immediately, Louis’ stomach sinks, heart picks up speed.

“Will?” he calls, dropping his duffle near the front door and sliding his keys onto the counter. “Babe?” Their cat, Rascall jumps off the couch and rubs against his foot, startling him. He hesitates near their bedroom door, fingers gripping the knob. Taking a deep breath, he pushes it open. “William?”

The bedroom seems even darker, not a single ray of sunshine poking through the thick curtains. He gives his eyes a moment to adjust, the lump hidden under the covers becoming more human. He approaches slowly, every step an effort, as if some invisible force is pulling him back towards the front door. “Will?” he says in a whisper this time. 

He moves to the side of the bed William is on, and crouches, hand suspended between himself and William. Finally, he reaches the rest of the way to place it gently where his shoulder should be. “Hey babe, it’s me.” There’s no response, and Louis swallows the panic down, shaking him a bit. “William,” he says, a bit of tension leaking through.

There’s movement beneath his hand and a quiet grunt. Louis takes this as permission as he pulls the blanket from over William’s head, his heartbeat slowly declining. He cards his hand through William’s greasy hair, thumb brushing against his ear. “Hi.”

William blinks his eyes open, and stares back at Louis’ face as if trying to place him before giving a quiet ‘hello’ back.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Jus’ tired. ‘m happy to see you.” He offers a lazy smile, leaning his head into Louis’ touch.

Louis bends down to press a kiss against his eyebrow, resting his forehead against William’s. William hasn’t showered since he’s left, that much is certain. Louis closes his eyes, the guilt that’s been collecting in the back corners of his mind hurdling out all at once. He breathes through it, running a soothing hand along William’s belly. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left.”

When he sits up, William just shrugs, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Come to bed?”

Louis obliges, crawling under the covers and slinging an arm around his waist, ignoring the fact that it’s nearly three in the afternoon.

“Did you have fun?”

Louis hesitates. “It was okay,” he says casually.

“Was he there?”

“Will.”

“That means yes.” He laughs, so dry and forced that Louis cringes.

“Will, how many did you take?”

William shifts away from him, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillows. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Louis sits up, and counts to three in his head while taking in steady breaths through his nose. “William, don’t make me call a doctor.”

“It was like, three. Chill, okay?” He laughs again, hysteric.

Louis pushes his hands into his hair, biting hard at his lip to keep him from screaming. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s put through this, doesn’t matter that he’s going to school to become a doctor, every time this happens he’s just as lost.

The bed moves as William rolls over to face Louis. He snakes a hand out of the blanket, grabbing for Louis’ thigh. “Hey, I swear. Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not - ” Louis shakes his head, breathing in slow. “I’m not angry. I’m worried. I hate when you do this, Will. What am I supposed to do?”

“Cuddle me.”

“Will - ”

“I just couldn’t sleep. I can’t sleep without you, Lou. I swear, it was just a few. You can take them, okay? I’m fine. I swear I’m fine. I just needed help sleeping.”

“Three is more than enough.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I overdid it.” He tugs him, attempting to pull him down to his level. “Please, I just. Come here. I’m sorry.”

Louis sighs, and relents, falling back down beside him. He kisses his temple, keeping his lips there while saying, “You’ve got to stop.”

“I know,” he says softly. He tilts his head up, catching the corner of Louis’ mouth, lips chapped and breath sour. “I’m sorry I’m such a fuck up. Don’t leave.”

Louis breathes in, breathes out, nudges his nose against his cheek. “You’re not, and I won’t,” he says, but William is already asleep, heavy breath pouring against his chin.

*

William’s parents decide to visit for the weekend, and Louis is more or less forced to move into Becs, three bags in tow. By the time Louis left their flat on Friday afternoon, there was virtually no trace that he has been living there for the past five months. Initially, Louis had hoped and even expected that eventually William would tell his parents he was gay. Now, Louis doesn’t have much hope for that, and he can’t even say he blames him with the stories he’s been told. Yet there’s still something disheartening in having to pack his bags and go camp on his girl friend’s couch while William plays the straight role, completely denying the past two years of his life.

Louis knows it’s not easy on William either. He knows the strain and anxiety, and the way it puts him in a funk for days afterwards, which is why Louis never puts up a fight. He’ll just pack his bags quietly, kiss him on the cheek at the door, and be on his way until he gets the call. Louis never wants to make it harder, so he leaves without a fight, but it’s when he’s lying on Bec’s couch at three o’clock in the morning that he wonders why he’s doing this. Why he’s forced into hiding when he stopped choosing to at nineteen. He wonders if it’s worth it until he’s panicking, as if William can hear his thoughts all the way across campus. He takes it back, apologises into thin air, and never realizes what that means.

Louis doesn’t see his friends as often as he should anymore, too busy with school and William. They always have room on their couch for him, although he’s beginning to wonder when that offer will run it’s course. Louis’ knows full well that his friends aren’t exactly supportive of their relationship. They think it’s unhealthy and dependant, suffocating his school and his friends and his life. He’s lost on how to explain it to them, as the ‘I love him’ failed to be an option a long time ago.

Because he does love him. He wouldn’t stick around for the fights and the pills and the ever-changing moods if he didn’t. They’re just in a bit of a funk. Louis’ been busy and distant with school, and William’s bored and alone. He finished school last June, and hasn’t been able to find any teaching jobs in Oxford. They’re just stuck in this uncomfortable waiting period, waiting for Louis to finish school, waiting for the right meds, waiting for everything to go back to how it was.

“So, have you talked to Harry recently?”

Louis snaps his head up from his textbook, nearly glaring at Becs from across the table. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, corner of her mouth turning up into a smirk. “Come on.”

“No,” he says, honestly. In fact, Louis’ tried very purposely to not even think about him for the past four months since returning. Of course, he failed, but he’s been trying at least. Louis most certainly can’t think about Christmas, about Harry in his stupid beanie beside the fire or his fingers around his wrist. He can’t because he’s flooded with so many different emotions that he nearly stops breathing. It’s mostly guilt, but there’s this want, this ache, that fills up his entire being from his throat to his gut that nearly causes him to combust. He had told Becs the very fine details of what happened during New Year’s and his fake Christmas, needing to let it out somewhere, but only to immediately lock it up in a box to never to speak of again.

“Louis.” She shoots him a disappointed look.

“Becs,” he returns, “I have a boyfriend.”

“But he’s your soul mate.”

“Becs,” he says again, harder this time, trying to force the pink from entering his cheeks.

She sighs, looking back down at her notebook in indignation.

Louis turns back to his textbook, and pretends that his heart isn’t pounding. He doesn’t tell her that he’s kept the last six postcards, adding them to his collection that’s hidden in an old shoebox at the back of his closet underneath newspaper clippings. Los Angeles. Houston. New Orleans. Jackson. Orlando. Nashville. Louis imagines him in a beat-up convertible, the typical road trip scene with the wind in his hair and the sun in his face, Bon Iver playing and a road map tucked between the console. Louis can picture it so perfectly, can picture the desert becoming mountains and the mountains becoming prairies and the prairies becoming buildings that reach into the clouds. He can picture Harry with his sunglasses, and the dimple in his right cheek as they screamed along to Boyzone. Louis can picture himself in the passenger seat, relaxed and content, hand out the window and drawing designs into the wind.

But, he tries not to think about Harry. Really.

*

Beginning of July, a week after he receives a postcard from Chicago, he’s in class when he gets a phone call from William, and then another, and then a text, and another, until his phone is a vibrating symphony inside his pocket. A year ago he might’ve ignored it, but now that he lives in constant fear that this might be the day he takes too many sleeping pills, Louis can’t take that chance.

Louis slips out into the hall, barely reading through the first of five texts, before another call comes through. The only thing Louis could make out amongst the misspelt, jumbled words was ‘fuck you’ and ‘Harry.’

He fights the urge to power off his phone and return to class, pretending none of this is happen. Instead, he answers, saying, “Will. What’s going on? What happened?”

“I found your fucking postcards, that’s what happened,” he yells so loud that Louis has to pull the phone from his ear. “Locked away in the back of the closet like some treasured fucking secret. Fuck you, Louis. All those times I asked you about him, only for you to deny it like I was some fucking jealous psycho!”

“Will…” Louis tries feebly, “they’re just postcards.”

“If you really weren’t talking, why would you send you so many goddamn postcards, and why the hell would you keep them? There are some from two fucking years ago and you never bothered to tell me? And you get them sent to fucking Becs? You fucking shady bastard, what the hell else aren’t you telling me? Fucking him too, I’m sure? Every chance you two get together.”

“Will, I wouldn’t.” Louis’ has already started down the hallway towards the stairwell exit, leaving his books abandoned in class.

“How the fuck am I supposed to believe anything you tell me? ‘Might be back in December, maybe we can have another fake Christmas?’ What the hell, Louis?” he chokes out, and within a second, he’s full on sobbing into the phone.

Louis’ sprinting across the campus lawn now, fumbling inside his pocket for his keys. He has no idea what else to say besides, “I’m sorry, Will. I’m on my way. I’ll be home soon. Please, just don’t…” he trails off, swallowing. He doesn’t think he’s listening anyway, not while wailing ‘fuck you’ and ‘how could you?’ over and over and over again.

Louis speeds home, phone tucked against his shoulder. William surprisingly doesn’t hang up, but he spends a lot of the time away from the phone where Louis’ can only hear his faint cries and some banging. Every time Louis comes close to hanging up and dialling 9-1-1, William will come back onto the phone to swear at him more. Still, the only thing Louis’ can still think of to say is, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I love you.”

He makes it home in record speed, William hanging up just as he gets out of the car. When he first enters the apartment, the first thing he smells is smoke. His panic reaches an all-time level until he finds William on their small deck, flames flickering from inside their metal mop bucket. Louis can only stare for a minute, too shocked to move or react, until he’s snapping his eyes from the fire and runs back into the flat, yelling, “Are you fucking crazy? What the hell are you doing?”

He starts by filling a dirty chip bowl, but it takes too long so he runs for the fire extinguisher in their front closet. He shoves William out of the way, and fumbles around with it, not having a clue what he’s doing. Eventually white foam emerges, smothering the fire.

Louis’ not aware he was yelling until after. “What the fuck were you planning on doing? Burning yourself?” he demands. William only stares at him, expression entirely blank, eyes rimmed red. In that brief moment, Louis has never hated anyone more.

And then he sees it, the box, lid off and empty. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is what this all was? You were burning the fucking postcards?”

When William finally he speaks, he says in a quiet, shaky voice, “Fuck you, Louis.”

Louis is so angry he’s practically foaming at the mouth, so he spits, and kicks the bucket so hard that it hit’s the railing and then flies back against the brick wall, loud enough that William visibly jumps. He looks him directly in the eye before pushing past him to go back into the flat. “No, fuck you.”

The bedroom is an absolute disaster, their things thrown across the room, marks on the wall, broken glass below. Louis stares at it and wants to scream, but nothing comes out.

William’s wailing again, coming up behind Louis and saying, “I took the rest of the sleeping pills, you know. It’s only a matter of time, and then you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”

Louis ignores him, and crosses the bedroom, kicking clothes, and shoes, and an alarm clock out of the way. He grabs the pill bottle off the nightstand, and shakes it. Sure enough, it’s empty. He sets it back on the desk, and begins to clean the mess while attempting to tune out William.

“You don’t even give a shit? You hate me that much? Do you know how many pills were in there. Louis! Louis! You fucking asshole! What the hell are you even doing here if you don’t even fucking care if I die?”

Louis folds a t-shirt, tucking it into the drawer.

“Fuck you! I fucking hate you! This is all your fault! You ruined me! And you don’t even give a shit! All you fucking care about is Harry! That’s all you’ve ever cared about! And you were just using me! I was just some sick fucking project that you couldn’t fix!” He begins throwing things again, this time grabbing clothes straight from the closet, and chucking them at Louis. Louis has been witness to quite a few breakdowns, but never this bad. And he’s tired. So tired, and he’s losing patience. “Oh my god, you don’t even care that I’m dying.” He clutches a sweater to his chest, and sinks down onto the ground, a pile of sobs.

Louis stares at him for a moment, heart shifting back. The anger dissipates, and then evaporates, and he’s left looking at William. The man he loves. Sad, broken William, and his heart breaks.

Louis takes two strides, and drops down onto a pile of clothes in front of him. He puts his hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing his ears, and says to William’s closed eyes, “Baby, I’m sorry. You’re not going to die.”

“I took sleeping - ”

“Do you really think I’d leave those lying around in the house? I replaced them with some low-dosage pills and sugar pills. Mostly, sugar pills. You won’t die. The most, you might get a little sick.”

William blinks his eyes open, and stares back at Louis, irises the bluest he’s ever seen them. “What?”

“Baby, come on. I love you. Don’t think ever for a second that I don’t care.”

William begins to cry again, but this time it’s no more than a whimper, hot tears flowing down his cheeks.

Louis wraps his arms all the way around him, holding him close, and kissing his hair.

Five minutes pass until William is saying, through cries, “I’m sorry, Lou. I’m so sorry. What’s wrong with me?”

Louis says, and says, “I don’t know, William. But I think you should see Dr. Welsh again.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me. I didn’t mean anything I said. I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know. It’s okay.”

His crying falls into soft whimpers and then nothing at all. He’s half asleep, when he whispers, once more, “I’m sorry. Don’t leave. I need you.”

“Come on,” Louis says, “let’s get you to bed.”

William nods limply in his arms, allowing Louis to manoeuvre him onto the bed. Louis tucks him in, blanket to his chin, and kisses his warm forehead like a mother.

“I’m sorry,” William says once more, eyes shut, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis runs his thumb along William’s cheek as he slips into sleep. He watches his eyelids flutter, the wrinkles on his forehead disappear, his pink lips fall open a crack as breath pours from between. Louis watches him and wishes he could say, I won’t leave you, but instead all he can think is, _I can’t._

*

When Harry answers the phone, William’s on the sofa across from him, wrapped up in his blanket.

“Hey, Lou!” For a split moment, Louis’ feels warm, only to remember why he’s calling in the first place. “How are you? What’s up?”

“I’m okay. I’m just - ”

“Hey, look. I don’t have much time, I’m just heading out. I could call you later?”

“No, um. This will - I just - ”  He fumbles for words, looking helplessly at William as if he’ll provide them - or maybe, just maybe, tell him he doesn’t have to do this after all.

William blinks, takes a sip of his tea.

“Harry… I can’t - We can’t - I mean, can you please stop sending me postcards?”

The lines quiet for a moment, before Harry’s saying, “What?”

“You know, I just.” He wipes his hands across his thigh, and clears his throat. “I don’t know. I mean, I have a boyfriend and all, and it’s just not - ”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Harry, we’re just not teenagers anymore.”

“He’s there,” Harry says. “Louis, I hope to God he’s there, and you’re not just doing this all over again. I swear to God.”

“I - ”

“They’re bloody postcards!”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” is all Louis can say.

“I hope he’s worth it, Louis.” His voice is quiet, deflated, and Louis’ not sure if he’s thankful or not, when what he expected was more angry words and vows never to speak to him again. He was expecting coward, and wanker, and bastard.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says once more, and can’t bare to hear Harry’s reply before hanging up. He stares at his screen for a minute, or three, half-hoping Harry will call back, at least send him a text telling him how stupid he’s being. To not do this. Not again. That he loves him, or something stupidly cliché like that.

When he looks up, William is watching him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you.”

Life is not a cliché. Certainly not one for Harry and him, at least. If it were, they would’ve been together a long time ago. Louis wouldn’t be sitting across from a man he both loves and sometimes, simultaneously hates. He wouldn’t feel like he’s sinking.

“I love you.”

Louis smiles, sure that it doesn’t reach his eyes, or even half way up his cheek, but William doesn’t notice anyway.

“Yeah, you too,” he says, and thinks, _I can’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expanded warnings include dealing with mental illness, emotional abuse, mentions/attempts of suicide and prescription drug abuse (minor side character, not the boys).


	7. vi.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairing:** harry styles/omc's (main: harry styles/louis tomlinson, mentions: louis tomlinson/omc)  
>  **warnings:** same ones carry from last chapter

  _vi. harry_

In November, Harry met Bryan in a bar in Seattle, and in true Harry style, he fell in love instantly.

They spend New Year’s in that same bar with friends. Harry switches between whiskey and red wine, attempting to follow along in discussions on poverty and staggering unemployment rate, to the new president, to contemporary writers. Usually, Harry can fake it enough to gain some hipster credibility with them, even when it comes to American politics, but it’s New Year’s and Harry’s drunk. He’s not much of a dancer on most occasions, but tonight it seems considerably more appealing than having yet another discussion on Chinese immigrants.

He can’t help but imagine Louis rolling his eyes and scoffing over how truly pretentious his new friends are, with their sociology and art history degrees and bowties and ironic fedoras.

Louis would dance with him.

Harry received a text earlier that day, the first since Louis had more or less told him to get out of his life. All it said was, _I’m sorry. Happy New Year, Harry._ Harry expected that Louis would eventually come around, knew that it’s never really over between them. Though Harry figured that he would be more angry when the time came, that he'd make Louis work for it a bit. He certainly deserved it, yet all Harry could do was smile, relieved that it was finally here. It might’ve only been a text, but Harry was grateful for every word. Harry replied, _yeah, you too. xx_ knowing there would be no reply. 

Fortunately, by eleven some of the girls are drunk enough to trade their grown-up talk for dancing. The DJ’s playing weird, dubstep-techno music that Harry isn’t too particularly fond of, but he’s too drunk off alcohol and Pacific Ocean air and new love to care. He twirls and jumps and laughs like he’s sixteen again.

Just before New Year’s, Bryan comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. Bryan doesn’t dance, but this is the closest he’ll get as they drunkenly sway back and forth, Bryan’s glasses knocking against his cheek.

Harry pushes back into Bryan, grinding his hips a little more until he can feel Bryan hard against him. If it weren’t for him being nearly twenty-two and therefore, a respectable adult, he might just consider fucking him in the toilets.

Then again, he might just anyway.

*

Harry moved in with Bryan and his roommate, Jeremiah, a week after they met. He technically had his own room, paid a third of the rent and all, but so far he’s spent a total of one and a half nights in it. What was the point of sleeping alone in his cold, hard bed when he could just sleep with Bryan? 

He works as a server at a seafood restaurant a few blocks from their apartment, and when he’s not with Bryan and his friends, doing hipster thing like sitting in cafes or going to shows, he’s fishing down at the pier. His friends laugh at him, and the vegans shake their head in contempt, but Harry enjoys it.  

He likes America. Likes how everything is big and loud and unabashed. He likes the attention he gets for his accent, the generous tips he’s given from giggling girls in red lipstick.

Harry buys a secondhand guitar, spending long nights with Bryan as he teaches him the chords. One night in late January, when Harry casually mentions lyrics he's written, Bryan demands that he see. He seems genuine when he tells Harry that they're brilliant, immediately pulling out his guitar to put music to his words. He says nothing about how they all bleed of Louis. 

The following month Harry even performs, though it’s nothing much, just a little cafe’s open mic, Bryan playing acoustic to his right. He gets plenty of compliments afterwards on his voice, on his words, which helps to calm his nerves after his exposing his entire heart for a roomful of strangers.

In Early March, Harry comes home to find Bryan fucking another guy.

At first, all Harry can do is stand there with his white knuckles gripped around the doorknob. He comes up with two options, both of which seem perfectly reasonable - yell and scream and cry, or walk out and pretend he never saw. He doesn’t end up doing either. Instead, he waits for what could be five whole minutes, watching his boyfriend fuck a stranger into the mattress they’ve been sharing for three months. He swallows, and begins with a very dramatic, “Uh, hi?”

Their movements come to an abrupt stop, Bryan looking over his glistening shoulder towards Harry. Harry’s angry of course, can feel the rage building up in his stomach like a tidal wave - but he also feels a bit turned on. Bryan is fit after all, and since Harry is usually on the receiving end, it’s not often that he gets to see his back in full glory, sweat dripping off his muscles. Harry can’t see much of the other bloke, except for his pretty profile, and well. Harry has a sex-drive.

“Hi babe,” he says, surprisingly aloof over heavy breathing. “Come join.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“This is Andrew,” he says, as if that’ll make a difference.

Harry stares, dumbfounded, and he must take too long to reply because Bryan turns back, hips regaining momentum. “I’m just gonna - I’ll be out. There,” he mumbles, backing out of the room, nearly tripping over his feet. He doesn’t even receive a grunt in response.

Harry’s still sitting on the couch in the dark, listening to the hum of the traffic outside when they finally emerge from the bedroom fifteen minutes later. He listens to their muffled chatter, their ‘see you later’ and the door closing shut.  

Bryan flicks on the light, and looks pityingly down at Harry. He’s wearing only briefs, skin and hair slick with sweat. Harry has a momentary flashback to when he was eighteen and Nick was looking at him with that same expression. “Harry,” is all he says.

“What the hell was that?”

“Harry,” he frowns, and takes a small step towards him, “we’re not exclusive.”

“What?”

“We never agreed to be exclusive,” he says, delicately, slowly, like Harry’s a moron.

Harry _is_ a fucking moron.

“I just - I thought that - ” He drops his head between his arms, at a loss for words. That’s just it, he _thought_. Harry certainly wasn’t seeing anyone else. They were living together. They shared a bed every night, for Christ’s sakes. Maybe they never blatantly said they were exclusive, but in these past three months, Harry never saw any signs that they were anything else. How could Harry not know?

Bryan sighs, bare feet padding across the floor. The cushion sinks as he sits down next to him, but he doesn’t reach out to touch Harry. “I mean, of course I like you and everything. You’re sexy as hell, and we’ve been having fun, but I’m not exactly the ‘monogamous’ type. Maybe it’s my fault for not making that more clear, but I thought it was well-known. I mean, no one here is. At least not out of my friends. Not in the gay community. Why ruin something good with exclusivity?"

Harry has no clue what to say, so he says nothing at all.

“I’m really sorry, Harry.”

Harry eventually lifts his head to look at Bryan. “Now what?”

Bryan squeezes his shoulder, fingers brushing against his ear soothingly. “I don’t know. We can still have fun together. You can join in next time.”

Harry had a threesome once, but that was back in his wild, substance-induced Europe days. Harry isn’t exactly the purest of them all, but something felt a little too dirty about having one guy fuck him after the other. If Harry didn’t like it then, he certainly wouldn’t like it now.

He might’ve jumped the gun in saying he loved Bryan, but he liked him a lot. How typical. He should’ve expected it after all, should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve known that it never works out the way he wants it. He keeps going from relationship to relationship, always hopeful, always hoping that maybe this time around he won’t be the one that loves more.

Harry runs his hands over his face, and then shakes himself out of it, standing. “I think I’m just going to pack and go. I was thinking of heading to LA, anyway.”

Bryan looks up at him, expression torn. For one brief moment, false hope enters and allows Harry to believe that Bryan might ask him to stay. That he’ll be exclusive for Harry.

“Okay,” he says eventually, shrugging in defeat - though Harry’s not sure it can be called defeat when there was no fight to be had. “I can’t stop you.”

Harry’s heart sinks. For once, he wishes he knew what it felt like to be begged to stay.

He manages to get all his things packed and into the back of his trunk in less than half an hour. Bryan stands on the curb, now showing enough decency in his sweats and tank-top.

“Tell everyone I said bye.”

“Hey,” Bryan says, reaching for Harry and pulling him in for a hug. Harry lets him, arms hanging loosely at his sides as he breathes in a mixture of Bryan’s musky body wash and someone else’s sweat. “I’m sorry it had to happen this way. But we had fun, yeah? It’s been great knowing you.”

Harry backs out of his arms as if he’s been burnt. It’s been nice knowing you? Like he was some acquaintance he had run into at a party? He heads to the driver’s side without a word or glance, and Bryan calls after him, “Harry, come on, please don’t leave like this.”

Harry opens the door, but before getting in he sends Bryan one last look over the roof. “Bye,” he says, getting in and closing the door before Bryan can get out so much as a sigh.

Harry doesn’t look through the rear-view mirror as he drives away, and he certainly does not cry.

*

Once in LA, Harry tells himself he’s done with relationships for awhile. He finds a crappy apartment four blocks from Sunset, gets a job at a record store, and signs up for guitar lessons and a beginner’s music writing class at the music school nearby.

He makes friends with a co-worker of his, a girl named Renee who has pink hair, piercings and plays drums in an all girls punk-folk band. She invites him out with her and her friends, and Harry is once again thankful for his profound ability to adapt when they accept him in without hesitance. Harry’s not sure if it’s because of his tattoos, or because he can pull of leather pants.

Harry spends his first three months in LA working and writing and practicing guitar. He goes to smoky bars with large stages and no tables, immersing himself in every type of music from punk to rock and roll to ska to folk, and every mix in between. He realizes it’s a little cliché, especially when he’s driving to Venice Beach and back again in packed old convertibles, or on the back of a motorcycle.  He wears leather and headscarfs and walks around barefoot. He smokes a lot of weed, and writes a lot of shitty poetry.

Harry feels light and free and happy, enough to realize that he never has been, at least not like this. He might be able to avoid relationships, but that’s not to say he has the same self-control when it comes to sex. He meets a guy at a show in Venice Beach who has long hair and wears cut-offs, and Harry promises himself it will only be a one night thing. Though he should’ve known that he would run into him again, which he does, twice in one month. Harry sleeps with him both times. He never allows the blokes name to stick in his mind, as if that will stop him from latching on, stop him from turning it into something that it isn’t meant to be.

Once Harry has some songs written, he musters up the courage to play wherever anyone will take him. It isn’t much at first - cafes in the quiet afternoon, small pubs before eight. He has no quips that it will take him anywhere, that it’ll become anything more than a hobby. He just enjoys it, likes that it makes him feel as if he’s actually doing something for once, like he’s more than just a travelling rat.

He does better than expected. It doesn’t take long before he’s being asked to play quietly at the back of a few low-key events, to opening for a band that actually has a fan base, no matter how small.

In late July, Harry finds himself performing for the biggest crowd yet, playing the spot before the main artist. He plays three of his own songs, plus an acoustic Radiohead cover, and when he’s rewarded with loud applause from people other than just his friends, he feels as if he might cry with joy.

He’s ordering a drink at the bar afterward, when a middle-aged man in a suit approaches him. “Harry Styles, is it?” He holds out a hand for Harry to shake.

Harry stares down at it, heart skipping a beat. Not only is the man’s suit beautifully tailored and expensive looking, but he’s also the only person in the entire bar who isn’t wearing a t-shirt. Harry heard rumours that a record label rep could be there, but he didn’t even fantasize with the idea that that could mean anything for him.

“Um, hi. Yeah. Harry Styles. That’s me,” he says quickly, grabbing for his hand once he realizes he’s been staring for too long.

“Ian Hopkins. It’s nice to meet you.” Once he pulls his hand from Harry’s, he reaches into his breast pocket to pull out a business card. Harry takes it, very delicately, as if touching pure gold. “I work for Syco, and I wanted to tell you that you’re very talented.”

“Um, thanks,” Harry manages to splutter, cheeks heating as he looks between the card and Ian in bewilderment.

“You’ve got a great look too, exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

“Is it the leather pants?” Harry asks, smiling.

Ian smirks, nodding while he very blatantly checks Harry out from head to toe. Harry feels his cheeks burn brighter. “Yes, they definitely help.” He returns his gaze back to Harry’s, and says, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Perfect.” He grins, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. Harry swears they glimmer under the dim bar light. “How about you call me tomorrow, and we’ll set up a time for you to meet with the rest of the team?”

“Um, yeah, okay. For sure.” Harry doesn’t realize he’s nodding like a maniac before it’s too late. He stares down at the card, still barely believing his luck.

Ian laughs, sounding rich and warm, and Harry has to stop himself from hugging him.

“Talk to you soon, Harry,” he says, and leaves Harry with a slick wink.

When Harry returns to the table where his friends sit, skin buzzing, the card is tucked inside his wallet.

“Who was that guy?” Thomas asks.

“Who?” Harry asks, feigning confusion.

“That guy in the suit, we thought maybe he was someone important.”

“Oh, that guy?” When they nod, Harry gives them a disinterested shrug, “Oh, just some bloke that wanted to buy me a drink. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Oh, too bad,” Spike says in disappointment.

Harry nods, and spends the rest of the night biting down his grin.  

*

Things move quickly after that. A surreal blur of meetings and luncheons, makeovers and media training, voice lessons and recording studios. It moves so quickly that Harry is barely given the opportunity to process the fact that he’s making a _real album_. That a team of people see him, and want to sign him to a real record label. Harry never imagined this to happen, it wasn’t even something he strived for, and there it was, falling straight onto his lap.

As the meetings go on, and more publicists and hairdressers and stylists are brought in, the more Harry realize it’s not him they want, but merely his face to project a preconceived image onto. It’s not his songs or words that they want. They’re somebody else’s, a team of people, but Harry almost doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’s ready for the entire world to hear his most inner-working thoughts and emotions anyway. 

Media training feels more like acting lessons than anything else. He's given a backstory, a personality: a straight Casanova with charm and mystique. A boy-next-door popstar meets edgy rocker. He likes the idea of being given a mask, to play someone else that isn't him for once. To be beautiful, desirable. 

He’s given a new car, and a large modern condo in Hollywood to keep up with his image. He attends a-list parties to get his name out there as the new up-and-coming artist, Ian always at his side. Despite all the lessons and critiques, Harry never feels any more comfortable than the first. At every event he lives in constant fear that he’ll screw up and ruin his career before it even begins. Harry’s not sure what’s stronger, his love for the glamour and attention, or the fear that he’s made a horrible mistake by signing himself away.

It takes Harry a month to realize Ian is going beyond his duties - the one-on-one lunches, the check-ins at his apartment, the hand always on Harry’s hip. He spends a week afterwards basking in the newly realized attention, making note of every touch and compliment before inviting himself back to Ian’s mansion and fucking him in his four-poster, ivory sheeted bed. He’s already been signed, so Harry doesn’t think there’s an issue of morality. Ian’s hot in a Ryan Gosling type of way. He’s witty and smart and powerful, and he seems to like Harry. He’s always around, showering him with adoration, complimenting his voice, his writing, his looks. While there might be plans and ideas for a successful future for Harry, he is still very much a nobody dressed in expensive clothing.

In October, he’s about halfway through recording his album, when he gets a phone call from Louis. Besides the text on New Year’s, Harry hasn’t heard from him since last summer. It’s been a long time, and Harry can’t pretend that he’s not hurt. He had foolishly thought things were alright between them again, that they could actually be mates, when Louis shut it all down on him again. He had his assumptions at the time that it wasn’t entirely Louis’ decision, and it was confirmed a few months after through Zayn (“They’re going through a bit of a hard time right now. Louis feels awful.”) He’s angry, but he’s not sure that even means anything when it comes to Louis.

Harry’s in the middle of getting fitted for a Young Hollywood event, but he excuses himself and ducks out of the room, much to the stylist’s and his manager’s dismay. “Hello?”

“Hi Harry. I’m so sorry. It’s Louis,” he rushes out all at once, as if stored up in a single breath. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t hang up.”

“I’m not going to hang up.”

“Why not? I mean, you definitely probably should. God knows I deserve it. I told you to stop talking to me, _again_ , and now here I am calling you like a total twat.”

“I believe you told me not to send you postcards,” Harry points out, chuckling softly. “And I won’t hang up. I’m not really mad. I’m actually quite glad you called.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m a total helpless twat?”

“Of course,“ Harry says. “I always think you’re a total helpless twat.”

“Ha, very funny.”

Harry smiles, toeing his foot along the wall. “So, what’s up? Or did you call just to see if I’d hang up on you?”

“No. No, I don’t even know why I called to be honest. All of a sudden I was just dialling your number. Are you busy?”

“Not really,” Harry lies, although he can hear his team’s chatter from the other side of the door. He’s been working so hard for the past three months, the least they can do is give him fifteen measly minutes to talk to Louis.

“I hear you’re some big popstar now.”

“Not quite.”

“Well, you will be.”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “Who knows, really. I’m not even halfway through the album. It might end up being complete shite.”

“I doubt it. You have the looks and impeccable charm,” Louis says casually, and Harry finds himself blushing. “You’ll be the next sensation in no time. Still, it’s just - wow. Never thought I’d be able to say I was best mates with a real life popstar.”

“Or that you shagged one,” Harry says with a laugh, wishing he could see Louis’ face light up.

“Oh god. Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

Silence falls between them, and for a minute, Harry’s content to listen to Louis’ breathing. He likes the reminder that after all this time, Louis is still very much alive and well and real. When Louis’ speaks again, the tone changes, his voice rushed and shaky. “I’m sorry, Harry. I really don’t know why I called you out of all people. I just - I needed to hear your voice again. You were always there when I needed you most. You always helped. You always got through.”

Harry can hear the desperation seep through, possibly even the beginnings of tears. He glances towards the door where everyone’s waiting for him, and walks further down the hall, plugging one ear to hear Louis clearer. “Louis, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know - ” he starts, and Harry can hear him swallow over the receiver. “I don’t know what to do with William. Harry, it’s so bad. And I’m just making it worse. I’ve always made it worse, and now - now - fuck.” Louis’ definitely crying now, and Harry wishes with every part of him that he could crawl through the phone and take a hold of Louis’ hand. While Louis was known to shed a tear or two over sappy movies, he was never much to cry over things that mattered. Even after all this time, it still pains Harry just as much to hear.

“Now what?” Harry probes.

“I can’t - I don’t. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t have anything left in me. And he knows it. He knows it, and I’m making it worse. I can’t leave him, Harry. I can’t.”

“Louis…”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I called you. It was so stupid. I just didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry. I’m such an absolute twat.”  

“Louis, stop, don’t be sorry,” he says, hushing him. “I’m glad you called. I just don’t really understand what’s going on right now. You can’t do what anymore? What’s happening? Why can’t you leave?”

Louis muffles a sob, and the sound causes Harry’s gut to twist. “He’s going to kill himself if I do. I know it. And it’s all my fault. It’s all my fucking fault because I could never love him the way he wanted me to. The way he deserved. I just fucked it up. I fucked him up. Just like I fuck everything up.”

“Louis, come on,” Harry says as soothingly as he manage through his increasing worry. “You don’t fuck everything up. I’m sure you didn’t fuck him up. If you really think he’d try to kill himself if you left, that goes beyond you. That’s something that’s broken inside him. It’s not because of you. You of all people should know this, Louis. You’re a doctor. You know how this stuff works.”

“I can’t leave. God, if I wasn’t so fucking shitty at loving people.”

“Louis, this is not because of you,” Harry says, a bit firmer. “I know you care about him and I know you’re worried, but you can’t let this affect your own mental health and well-being. If you really can’t do this anymore, then don’t. If you really think he’s that suicidal, tell the hospital, or the authorities, someone, so they can get him help while you help yourself.”

“I can’t. I can’t do this to him after everything.”

“Louis, you’re not helping anyone by sticking around just because you feel you have to.”

“He’s my boyfriend, Harry. I’ve been with him for three years. I love him.”

Harry sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, at a loss of what to say. “Harry,” he hears a voice say from the end of the hallway. Ian’s sticking his head of the door, staring at him inquisitively. “Come on. What are you doing?” he mouths.

Harry holds up a finger, and mouths back, “Hold on.”

Ian sighs in exasperation, and turns on his heel, disappearing back through the doorway.

“You’re doing something,” Louis says in realization. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re busy with your new and glamorous life. You don’t have time for your old, pathetic friend who can never get his shit together.”

“Louis, don’t - ”

“I’m sorry. It was selfish of me. Please, go and finish what you were doing,” he says in a now calm and firm voice. Though the shake remains, giving him away. “I’m okay. It’ll all be fine. I’m just being a bit of a drama queen, as per usual.”

“Louis,” Harry says in exasperation, “don’t pretend like this is nothing.”

“Look, it was a mistake. Pretend this never happened, okay?” he says. “I gotta go.”

“Louis,” Harry says, but he’s already hung up. He kicks the wall, cursing under his breath. He calls back, but it goes straight to his inbox. He calls twice more, and he’s halfway through leaving a voicemail, begging him to call him back, when Ian appears at the door again.

“Harry,” he says impatiently. “We don’t have all day to wait around for you. There's things to do. Whoever it is can wait.”

Harry closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before finishing with, “Louis, look, please call me, okay? This is serious. Don’t shut down. I want to help you. Please call me back.”

Louis doesn’t call back. Harry calls every day for the next week, only to get his voicemail every time. Nine phone calls later, he finally gets a text from Louis that reads, _please stop calling harry. william will see. It’s fine now, we’re working on it. I was just having a bad day. I’m sorry for dragging you into it. thanks for caring tho xx_

He groans in frustration, throwing his pillow across the room. He ends up calling Zayn, who tells him he talked to Louis the other day, and insists that he’s doing fine. Harry doesn’t exactly believe it, but there’s not much else he can do.

Harry carries on, busy with his new life, but every so often Louis will trickle into his mind, causing him to feel sick with worry. Harry can still very clearly hear him crying over the phone, desperate and confused.

Harry’s life becomes a routine, but it never stops being surreal. He spends a lot of time at Ian’s, stretched along his expensive furniture, looking out his wall of windows to the Hollywood Hills below. It feels a lot like a relationship, Ian certainly treating him like a boyfriend, but Harry is too hesitant to ask. Ian is thirty-two and successful after all, and given his past, Harry is afraid to look like a child.

It all feels too familiar. Reminding him of his time with Sebastian, or Tarou, or even Chris. It’s all pretend. He’s playing a role in somebody else’s life, waiting for reality to barge in and tear it all down.

By the end of November, Harry hasn’t heard from Louis. He’s so busy though, swept from recording studio to event to interview that he isn’t given much time to reflect on it, much less on his own life.

The first Sunday in December, Harry is woken up to a phone call at five A.M. Ian groans, rolling over and pulling his pillow over his ears. Harry fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, and barely makes out Zayn’s name before flipping it open in mild confusion. “Ello?”

“Harry, hi. I know it’s early there, I’m sorry.” Zayn’s voice sounds rushed, too high, and even through the grogginess, Harry knows something is not right. 

“It’s okay. What’s going on?” Harry asks.

There’s a pause as Zayn takes a choked breath. When he speaks, Harry feels his heart drop, beating heavily inside his gut. “Harry," he says, "I think you need to come home now.”


	8. vii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairings:** louis tomlinson/omc's (main: louis tomlinson/harry styles)  
>  **warnings:** same types of warning apply as the last chapter. it's very important that if you have any triggers regarding the subject of mental illness that you scroll down to the bottom for more details.

_ vii. louis _

Louis spends New Year’s Eve in bed, Zayn pressed against his side.

His mum and sisters aren’t home, so they prop the window open and pass a spliff back and forth. Zayn doesn’t say much, just lets the silence pass between them. For the first time in a month, Louis feels calm. The silence is a blanket, covering him in numbness as the cold air blows in through the window.

Louis presses his face into Zayn’s arm, breathing in deep while Zayn draws pictures in the air. Zayn smells like childhood, smells like what simple used to feel like. Back when things weren’t so complicated and messy, back when Louis didn’t realize just how cruel the world truly is.

When Louis cries, as he always does nowadays, Zayn doesn’t say a thing. He just allows Louis to bury into his hair while he hugs him around the waist.

Neither of them notice that the new year struck nearly two hours earlier.

*

It’s the end of January when Louis hears that Harry is back in town after his record fell through. He switches off his phone, and hides it underneath a pile of dirty laundry.

Louis was told in December that Harry had bought a plane ticket as soon as he heard the news, but Louis had to beg Zayn to tell him not to return from LA. He couldn’t let Harry ditch his record deal for a grieving Louis - especially when the thought of seeing him left Louis sick to his stomach. Harry had called and texted, but Louis couldn’t return a single one. He couldn’t bare to see him, not then, and certainly not now. Not while memories plague him - memories of William burning Harry’s postcards, of William sobbing on Christmas Eve after too many mentions of Harry. William was always suspicious, always knew, even when Louis couldn’t admit it to himself. He can’t see Harry’s face now, all the guilt and mistakes reflected off his eyes.

Three days after Harry’s return, Louis wakes to a knock at his door. He’s barely conscious when Harry’s soft voice creeps in through the cracks. “Louis. I know you don’t want to see me, but I’m here. I’m sorry I wasn’t here before. I’m really sorry. Louis. Can I come in? Can I please see you? Shit, Louis, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so sorry this happened. I’ll be here, okay? I’m not going to leave.”

Louis stares at the closed door, attempting to control his breathing. There’s no lock, and Harry could easily open it, but he never does. Louis stays wide awake, back pressed against the wall, eyes never leaving his door. If he listens close enough, he can hear Harry’s breathing on the other side.

Hours pass, and Louis doesn’t move from where he’s sitting, doesn’t move a limb. He sits there for three hours, staring into nothing, not thinking. He counts breaths and the tiles on his ceiling. Three hours pass until curiosity gets the best of him, pulling him from his bed and towards the door. When he opens it, he’s surprised to see Harry spread against the wall opposite him, head lulled against his shoulder as he sleeps.

Louis stares at him, feeling the blood in his veins speed up and the colour return to his skin. He tries to think, tries to process feelings, but he’s stuck. He swallows, and without realizing, steps over Harry’s long legs to slide down the wall next to him. Harry wakes almost immediately, taking a moment before his bleary eyes land on Louis.

“Lou,” he says, so soft it’s barely audible. It’s all Louis needs before he buries his face into Harry’s shoulder and starts to cry.

Harry’s arm snakes around Louis’ waist, pulling him closer. Louis just cries, and cries, harder than he has yet. Harry kisses his head, rubs his side and wipes his tears away with his thumb. Louis can’t breathe, suffocating through his own sobs and memories and guilty heart. Louis’ not sure if he feels worse or better than he has in close to two months.  

Harry is the first to say something, nudging his forehead against Louis’ temple and whispering, “I’m so sorry.” And then, “It wasn’t your fault.”

A choked wail escapes Louis’ throat as he says, spluttering, “It was. It was.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head vehemently. “It wasn’t. I promise, it wasn’t.”

Louis spends nearly an hour wrapped in Harry’s arms, going through a cycle of uncontrollable wailing to quiet hiccups. Harry doesn’t speak a word, just continues to kiss his hair and rub his side while Louis allows every emotion to take over.

Then, without warning, Louis silently untangles himself from Harry. He stands up and goes back to his room, closing the door behind him without a glance. He stands behind the door for a half an hour until he hears Harry’s footsteps retreat.

The following day, he finally digs his phone out to call Zayn. Louis pleads for him to tell Harry not to come again, not to contact him. He tells Zayn that he wouldn’t be mad if Harry left again, that he should. That he shouldn’t let Louis’ misfortune stop him.

A week later, he hears that Harry has left for Thailand.

*

Winter ends, blossoms sprout and the birds return, and Louis still feels like he’s living inside a dream. He goes about his usual routine, from home to the flower shop where he works to Dr. Woodson’s to Zayn and Perrie’s to football, but it’s not until he stops and reflects in the quiet of his room that he realizes he wasn’t present for any of it. That he was merely a hollow case floating about on auto-pilot. Louis’ not certain where he goes when this happens, only that this is the norm now. He’d almost rather it this way, when being aware only fills him with anxiety so thick that he feels poison bubble in his stomach, paralyzed within his own toxic brain.

Looking back on the past five months, everything seems a blur. Initially, Louis was in this weird state of knowing that he shouldn’t be okay, but still thinking that he was. He was functioning fine, sometimes even a little too well. He could talk and eat and think, but now when he looks back it doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel like he was the one in those memories. The difference now is that Louis knows he wasn’t okay, and that he still isn’t.

He had his share of breakdowns though, sometimes happening in week-long stretches where he’d experience them almost daily. They were horrible things, complete with full-blown anxiety attacks followed by tantrums of a six year-old. What would start as a simple thought would spread like a disease, and Louis could only watch helplessly from above, separated from himself. A lot of the time, it was never about the actual situation. It was always some other unchangeable factor in his life - school, his consuming loneliness, self-hatred or the utter hopelessness that his life was seemingly becoming. He found that his thoughts would wander to Harry too frequently, and that only made him feel worse. It only made him want to claw out of his skin and rip out his hair all the more, because what kind of sick person thinks about Harry when they should be thinking about William? Then he’d find himself on the floor somewhere, wracking with sobs until he felt he would burst. It wouldn’t take long for his mum to appear, petting his hair and cooing in his ear, though Louis usually couldn’t hear what she was saying over his own, “it’s my fault, it’s all my fault,” that he repeated over and over again like a mantra. Come the next morning, Louis would find himself back in Dr. Woodson’s office, seated in his cushioned rocking chair and sipping green tea.

Louis still spends much of his time in his room, sleeping and reading and writing - but mostly sleeping. His mum and friends and even Lottie are great, always there for him when he needs to share silence with someone. Most of the time, Louis doesn’t want to talk, not to people who don’t understand. They barely knew William, if at all, and none of them have experienced a loss even half as great. As hard as they try, they don’t get it, they can’t. They don’t understand what it’s like to live in a perpetual state of anger and grief and confusion, to feel an ache so wide it consumes them, but then to still manage to feel uncharacteristically okay, all at the same time. He hates knowing they’re walking on eggshells around him, not wanting to say the wrong thing that leads to his next breakdown. What they don’t realize is that it doesn’t work like that. Becs and Maggie understand the most, but they’re all the way in Oxford, and Louis can’t bring himself to call them back most of the time. Louis hasn’t been back to Oxford since, and he doesn’t plan on it. The memories are hard enough, the ghost of WIlliam running across campus or in inhabiting the pitying eyes of his mates. Louis has one year left of clinical, but he can’t finish. How is he supposed to be a doctor, to help people, when he couldn’t even help his own boyfriend? His dreams and motivations died along with William, and there was the flower shop, simple and undemanding. There’s no one for him to let down.

Everyone keeps telling him that it’s not his fault. That it was inevitable, that it was all some disease in William’s head, one that would’ve undoubtedly killed him without proper help. Louis gets that, he knows how it all works, he was a med student for Christ’s sake. He should’ve known. He should’ve gotten out of his own selfish bubble, the one with thick walls and realized. There he was in school studying it, yet he was so self-absorbed that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him, sharing meals and a bed with him. Of course Louis knew that William struggled with demons and issues bigger than himself, but looking back, Louis never took it as seriously as he should’ve. Most of the time he’d call William crazy, threaten to leave until his bags were packed. Until there was a noose and William’s blue face. Louis should’ve known. He should’ve done something. Should’ve pushed him harder to get help, to see a therapist, to stick to his meds. He should’ve been more patient, should’ve been more understanding as opposed to annoyed and frustrated. He shouldn’t have left. He should’ve loved him better, should’ve stuck through it. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.

He shouldn’t have been thinking of Harry.

The funeral was the worst. William hadn’t come out to his parents which meant Louis’ had to sit a few pews from the front. When giving his obligatory condolences, William’s parents shook his hand like he was any other uni mate. His family, Zayn, Niall and Liam all came for support, but they sat at the very back and slipped out early to avoid any suspicion. They all told him to tell William’s parents the truth, but he couldn’t. If William didn’t want them to know such a crucial part of his life when he was alive, they didn’t deserve to know now.

Louis watched while everyone showered William’s parents and childhood friends with sympathy. Louis watched from the back with Becs and Maggie, thinking how none of them had a clue. They didn’t know William. They didn’t spend every day for three years with him. They weren’t there for the laughter, or for the breakdowns. They didn’t know all the sides to his beautiful, mixed up soul. They only saw what they wanted to see, what he wanted them to see. Louis knew him the best out of the hundreds of people there, yet he was pushed back as insignificant. This made him feel worse, like the world’s biggest twat for wanting attention over his dead boyfriend.

Then, that was it. Louis packed up his stuff and returned to Doncaster, William’s parents back to Sussex. Now, all Louis has left of William is a couple old sweatshirts, a cat, and too many memories.

It’s been five months, and while he misses William more than he can bare, he tries not to hate himself for missing Harry too. It’s been four months since he left for Asia, and Louis hasn’t heard a word from him since.

He knows he can’t be angry, that he asked Harry to go after all. Yet, just like when Louis had told him not to come to the funeral, he found himself upset that Harry listened.  He didn’t mean it as a test, he was just confused, is _still_ confused. Plus, who is he to ask Harry to be here to hold his hand when they’ve been separated for so long? Though it’s been four months of silence now, and just because Louis asked him to leave, doesn’t mean he didn’t want to hear from him at all. He has no idea where or what Harry is doing. He’s too proud to ask any of the lads, and neither do they mention it to him on their own.

Come August, Louis notices a measurable shift. Maybe it’s summer at full bloom, the bright sun and warm nights, but Louis feels something inside of him lift and expand. He gets his own place, a cozy flat just a few blocks from his mum’s. He picks up more shifts at the flower shop, gets promoted, and spends more time with the lads now that they’re finished with school. His therapy sessions move from once a week to once every two, and while William is still a permanent fixture in his mind, the debilitating thoughts that come along with him are few and far between.

Louis loves working at the flower shop. As soon as he so much as steps foot inside he feels instantly relaxed, his senses filled with colours and scents and beauty. There’s no doubt that there’s been many factors that play a role in his healing, from his friends and family and therapy, to writing and joining a community football team. Yet as silly as it may sound, being surrounded by flowers have touched and soothed a place deep inside of him that has long since been ignored.

Friday night dinners at Zayn and Perrie’s have become a sort of tradition in the past few months. Initially, Louis wouldn’t bring much more than his dull self, humming and hawing as he mindlessly pushed food around his plate. Gradually, Louis moved from buying store bought dessert, to attempting his own burnt chocolate chip cookies, to salad to homemade veggie dip. It’s not much, but it’s a start. While he feels silly, like a child who brings home a scribbled piece of paper to hang on the fridge, he also feels accomplished. He may not be a doctor, but Louis is taking baby steps.

Zayn and Perrie are both teachers, which Louis finds both cute and nauseating. They talk a lot about their students, but Louis doesn’t mind. He likes kids, but even better still, he likes that it’s so opposite from anything in his life that it provides a perfect distraction. Usually they manage to squeeze out a few weekly highlights in Louis’ rather tedious life before it reminds them of something one of their students did, and they’re back at it.

Today however, as Louis is taking a bit of his brownie, he says as casually as he can, “So there’s this bloke that’s been coming into my work quite regularly.”

Both Zayn and Perrie put their fork down and stare at him simultaneously, as if he just told them he had witnessed a murder. Once the minute hand makes it to three-quarters of the way around the clock above them, Perrie says, “And?”

“And,” Louis shrugs, suddenly embarrassed, diverting his gaze from hers, “and, I don’t know. He’s pretty fit. In his early thirties, I imagine. Wears nice suits and all. He came in a few weeks ago to buy flowers for his mum, and we chatted. He’s been back quite a bit.”

“What’s quite a bit?” Zayn asks.

“Like, twice a week?” Louis withholds the part where he doesn’t always leave with flowers.

“Hm,” Perrie says, and Louis looks up to see the two of them exchanging glances. He can’t tell if they’re suspicious, or trying to keep their excitement in. “And he’s not married?”

“No, he - ” Louis chews on his bottom lip, staring intently at his brownie. He blushes, and says, “No, he actually - he actually asked me out on a date today.”

This time, when they drop their forks there’s a loud clank against the ceramic. “A date?” Perrie repeats, voice suddenly shrill. Louis looks up to her beaming, bouncing in her chair. She looks seconds away from getting up and attacking him with cuddles and squeals. Louis’ feels his cheeks burn brighter. When she looks over at Zayn though, her face falls, suddenly looking unsure. “I mean - is it a good thing? How do you feel? Did you say yes?”

Louis can’t say he wasn’t expecting this. “I said I’d think about it.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?”

Louis picks at his brownie, and says, “I don’t know. Do you think it’s a good idea?”

Perrie inhales, exchanging another look with Zayn. Louis waits while they have a silent conversation. He really hates when they do that. Eventually, Perrie turns back to him, eyes flicking to his in caution. “Ultimately you know that’s up for you to decide, but I personally don’t see the harm in it. I think it could be good for you, even if it doesn’t go anywhere. Just to get out with someone new, you know? Have some fun.”

Louis looks at Zayn, inquisitively.

Zayn sighs, shrugging uncomfortably. “Do what will make you happy, Lou. You deserve it.”

Louis finishes off the rest of his brownie, mulling it over in his head. He doesn’t have a clue what will make him happy.

The next day, Louis is in the middle of arranging a wedding bouquet when his boss, Liz, interrupts his concentration with, “Your man is here.”

Louis’ head snaps up instantaneously, gazing around the store until he spots Michael by the fridges near the front of the store, gazing a little too intently at the array of roses inside. Louis can’t help it as a smile tugs on his lips, but he soon realizes and attempts to hide it from Liz’s knowing eyes. By the way she’s smirking at him, he thinks she caught it anyway.  

“Go on,” she says, shooing him away with both hands.

Louis sighs, slinking away as if walking across the store to see Michael is a chore. It’s not, and Liz knows it’s not, but sometimes Louis is one for dramatics.

“I like the whole subtlety approach,” Louis says over Michael’s shoulder.

Michael turns to him at once, feigning surprise with a hand over his chest. Michael is also one for dramatics, which is why Louis thinks they get on so well. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you come to stare at the roses, or have you come to ask me out on a date again?”

“Wow, someone’s a little self-absorbed.”

Louis places his hands on his hips and tilts his chin up, striking a pose. “And tell me you wouldn’t be.”

“Wow, you just opened my eyes,” he says dryly. “You are so right, Louis. How did I come to deserve such a blessing?”

Louis removes his hands from his hips, and winks. “Must’ve done something right.”

Michael rolls his eyes, laughing good-naturedly. “I just asked you out yesterday,” he says. “Why would I ask you out again? I do value my pride at least a little, you know.”

“Michael, I’m disappointed. We just went over this. Good things like this take hard work. Didn’t your parents ever tell you a thing or two about perseverance?” he tuts.

Instead of replying, Michael opens the fridge and pulls out a single red rose. He holds it out for Louis, eyebrows raised and the corners of his lips turned up into a suggestive smirk. “No, but they did teach me a thing or two about chivalry.”

“Is chivalry a thing if I’m also a bloke?” Louis asks, genuinely curious.

Mike pulls the rose to his chest, shielding it from Louis as he stares at him blankly.

Louis laughs, and holds out his hand, grabbing for it. “Okay, give me it! I’ll go on a date with you.” Louis holds up a hand on second thought, and continues, “But just casual drinks, okay? None of that fancy dinner stuff you business men are prone to."

“I would never.” He gasps, feigning offence over such an assumption.

“All the lady wants is a few cocktails.”

“Then cocktails the lady shall get.” Michael bows in true form, holding the rose out to Louis.

Louis tries to remain composed while curtsying back and accepting the flower, but he giggles all the way through. He’s sure people are watching them wondering why they’re acting like complete nutters - Liz certainly is - but Louis’ feels a little too giddy to care. Louis admires it before holding it against his nose to smell. “You’re going to have to buy this, you know.”

“So romantic.”

Louis winks.

Michael does buy the rose, and he returns a few hours later when Louis is closing up the shop. He’s out of his usual fitted suit, swapped for black fitted jeans and a pressed button-up with a beige, corded waistcoat overtop.

Louis says, “Aw, you’re such a hipster.”

Michael frowns, nearly pouting. “I am thirty-three years old. I can’t be a hipster.”

“Look at your shoes! Those are hipster shoes!”

“What?” he says, defensively. “They’re dress shoes!”

“They’re vintage. Are those flowers printed on them?”

“You suck, okay?” he says, definitely now pouting like a three year-old in the middle of the sidewalk. “I tried to look good and you’re just making fun of me.”

Louis attempts to pout back, but his smile breaks it. Without realizing, he goes in for a hug, arms around his waist. “I’m sorry, Michael. I was just kidding. You look very handsome.” Before pulling away, he mumbles real quick, “For a thirty year-old hipster.”

This time Michael laughs, knocking him on the arm. “You’re a real treat, you know that? I think I already regret asking you out.”

Louis bats his eyelashes up at him. “No you don’t,” he says.

Michael manages to keep a straight face for no more than half a second before he’s laughing again, single dimple showing on his scruffy cheek. Louis has to hand it to him, business man or hipster, Michael pulls off thirty-three extremely well. Louis’ sure he pulls it off even better naked. “Hi,” Michael says after they’ve been smiling dopily at each other for awhile.

“I smell like flowers,” Louis says.

“My favourite. What did you expect from a bloke that’s a regular at a flower shop?”

“I thought you came in so much because of me,” Louis says without shame. He’s only partly teasing.

Michael snorts. “Oh please, Louis, get over yourself. Is it so hard to believe that a classy, non-hipster middle-aged much like myself might just have an affinity for overpriced, albeit beautiful plants?”

Louis rolls his eyes, and this time he’s the one that knocks Michael in the arm. Michael’s reply comes in the form of a grin, and his arm thrown over Louis’ shoulder. Louis feels his cheeks heat, but he welcomes the contact by leaning into him slightly as they start down the street towards his car.

Michael listens to his wishes to go for drinks, but he still brings them to a posh, dimly lit lounge with large circular booths and fishbowls on the table. Louis orders his promised 10 euro cocktail, and Michael orders a beer. “A man’s man,” Louis remarks, smirking once the waitress walks away.

Michael wiggles his eyebrows. “You know it.”

Once the waitress returns with their drinks, Michael takes a sip from his before saying, “So, tell me about yourself, Louis.”

Louis’ pulls a face. “God, I hate that question so much. It’s so - vague. And lazy. There’s too much pressure on me now.”

Michael takes a deep breath, shooting him a look. “What was that you said before? Perseverance?”

Louis smiles sweetly over his Daiquiri.

“How about the flower shop then? Did you always want to be a florist? While the other boys were playing with monster trucks and mud, were you picking flowering and arranging them for your kitchen table?”

Louis ducks his head, laughing uneasily. He knows there’s likely no intention or judgement behind Michael’s words. He realizes it’s natural for small talk to start at profession, especially when that’s how they met, buy Louis can’t help the small twinge of shame that creeps into his veins. He loves his job, but just like when important looking people in suits that cost double his paycheck come into the shop, a small part of Louis always wonders if they’re looking down at him. Wonders if to them he’s just a nobody with no motivation in life, barely finished secondary, and will spend the rest of his life selling flowers for a living. He knows it’s ridiculous, and even a little narcissistic, because when he looks at Liz he certainly doesn’t think that. It’s just that he spent so many years with a dream to finish med school, to live in a fabulous house and go on exotic vacations with his husband and three kids. Now he has most of a degree, a mountain of debt, a small flat in Doncaster and a dead ex-boyfriend; he finds it a little hard to cope sometimes. He can’t imagine what his teenage self would think if he found out that he gave up an Oxford med degree to sell plants. “I was in med school. At Oxford. I kind of just found myself at the shop, and it’s been - it’s been good.”

Michael blinks at him in shock, eyebrows so high they nearly touch his hairline. “Oxford med? Wow. That’s - _wow_ , Louis. That’s really impressive.”

Louis forces a smile, wiggling his fingers in the air for dramatic effect. “Surprise,” he offers lamely.

“What did you - I mean - ”

“Why do I sell plants instead of having a respectable career?” Louis says, finishing for him.

“That is not what I was going to say,” Michael says. “I happen to think being a florist is a very admirable career. You manage to make beautiful things even more beautiful. People go to you for the happiest days of your life, and immediately for loss and comfort. That says something.”

Louis shrugs. “Tell that to the mountain of student loans.” He laughs, an attempt to lighten the mood as soon as he realizes his mistake. Louis’ not exactly well-versed on the workings of first dates, seeing as he technically hasn’t been on a proper one until now, but he figures being a complete downer within the first ten minutes isn’t exactly appealing.

“Oh god, don’t remind me.” Michael cringes as if he’s experiencing flashbacks from a very dark period. “I just finished paying mine off.”

“Don’t you work in an advertising firm?” Louis asks. When Michael nods, Louis says, “Maybe you shouldn’t have bought so many suits and gay shoes.”

Michael scoffs. “Coming from the guy who’s drinking a pink Daiquiri.”

“Luckily for me, I am gay, so it’s allowed.”

Michael crowds closer to the table, leaning towards Louis and whispers in faux-secrecy, “In case you didn’t get the memo, I’m gay too.”

Louis tips his drink towards him, and says, “Then embrace your gay shoes, Michael. Embrace them.”

“Bloody hell, I will!” he says, slamming his drink down against the table. Some beer splashes over the edge which causes them to burst out giggling like school children. Louis hasn’t felt this ridiculous or giddy in a long, long time.

He’s just happy he managed to get past the drop-out question. He also gets the feeling that bringing up dead ex-boyfriends on first dates are a general faux-pas.

It’s nearing close to ten by the time they leave, and when Michael drops him off at his place, Louis’ isn’t even thinking when he asks, “Would you like to come in?”

Michael grins, Louis mirroring it, and when he turns off the ignition, Louis can feel his heartbeat in his ears.

“Can we play checkers?” Michael asks.

Louis laughs, rolling his eyes as he gets out of the car. “Yeah, we’ll play checkers,” he says absentmindedly, Michael following close behind. Louis fumbles in his back pocket for his keys, hands shaky.

Inside his flat, Louis barely has his shoes off before Michael has him against the door, kissing him hard.

Louis’ hands find their way to his hair, bodies flushed together, and kisses him back.

*

“So... I slept with him?”

Louis watches as Zayn and Perrie exchange looks from across the couch. Zayn speaks first, lamely offering, “Well, that’s um. Well, unexpected?”

Perrie rolls her eyes, socking him in the arm. “How was it?” she asks, squealing behind her fingers.

“Good,” Louis says, stifling a grin.

“Good?” she repeats. “How do you feel?”

Louis stops to ponder it for a minute, then says, “Like I just had sex for the first time in a year.”

She huffs. “Come on, Lou, a girl needs details.”

“Zayn doesn’t, thank you.”

She socks him in the arm once more. “Then leave, wanker. I want to hear it.”

Zayn goes to do just that, but Louis quickly stops him by saying, “I am not going to tell you the details. He’s fit, and even more so naked. It was good, that’s all.”

“Did he stay the night?”

Louis hesitates. “Yes, but - ”

“Oh my god!” she squeals, this time reaching over to sock Louis in the arm in excitement.

“Perrie,” he says warningly, and she instantly stops, biting her smile back and looking at him with a straight face. “He’s already tried to call me five times.”

“Why don’t you - ” She stops, looking over his expression. “Louis,” she says, sighing sadly.

“I just can’t,” he says. “I feel too guilty.”

“Love.” She shimmies down the couch towards him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and cuddling him close. “It’s okay if you’re not ready, but there’s no reason to feel guilty, okay? It’s almost been a year. I’m sure William wouldn’t be mad, he’d want you to move on and be happy.”

Up until two months ago, Louis was sure William would want him to stay miserable and alone for the rest of his life, just like Louis was sure he deserved. Now, he shrugs, and says, “Maybe.” Perrie rubs his shoulder, soothing fingers against his neck. “I still don’t think - I just can’t right now.”

“Okay, and that’s entirely reasonable, but you can’t ignore the poor guy. You have to talk to him.”

Louis sighs, hating that she’s right.

By the time Friday rolls around though, there’s three new calls and two texts, all of which go unanswered. Louis knows he’s being a complete twat, but he’s never had to reject someone using the dead ex-boyfriend card before. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say it without blubbering all over him.

Michael is waiting outside when Louis closes up the shop. He was expecting it, knew it was the last inevitable step before Michael gave up for good. Louis spends a bit longer on the lock than needed, using the few extra moments to take a deep breath and gain composure. Eventually, Louis turns to look at Michael. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he returns from where’s leaning against the wall, hands buried inside his coat pockets.

They continue to look at each other, tense air thick between them. Louis _really_ doesn’t want to do this.

Michael sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Why have you been ignoring me?”

 _Because that’s what I do best_ , is what Louis thinks, but what he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“I thought we had a good night. Is it because I stayed over? Did that make you uncomfortable? You could’ve told me to leave.”

Louis shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.” Initially he had panicked at the thought of Michael spending the night, but he ended up appreciating it. He liked the feeling of a warm body sleeping next to him that wasn’t his cat. He liked the company, the contact of warm skin. The following night his bed had seemed too big, too cold, and he realized he had forgotten how much he loved sleeping with someone next to him. He misses it so much that if all Michael wants is to share a bed, Louis might be up for it. He gets the feeling that that’s not the case though.

“Then what, Louis?”

Louis takes a deep breath, glancing at the street around them. It’s quiet, except for a few other vendors closing up shop. He’s not particularly fond over having this conversation here, but since he’s been the one ignoring Michael for the past week, he’s not sure he has much of a choice. When he bring his attention back to Michael, he’s blinking at him impatiently. “I have a dead boyfriend,” is what Louis ends up saying. He doesn’t need to see the stunned look on Michael’s face to know he could’ve worded that a whole lot better.

“I mean,” Louis sighs, rubbing his shoulder, “my boyfriend of three years killed himself last December.”

Michael stays silent for a minute, mouth opening and closing before finally landing on, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, shuffling his feet along the ground. Pretty much as awkward as he thought it would be, but at least he’s not in tears.

“God, Louis. I’m so - I’m so sorry. Wow.”

Louis shrugs, looking down at the crack in the sidewalk. “It’s okay. Thanks.”

They fall into silence, and it takes a minute for Louis to realize that maybe ‘my boyfriend died’ isn’t explanation enough, though he wishes it were. “Look, I - I thought I was okay. I liked you, and I wanted to see how it would go. Give it a chance. I mean, I still like you, but - I just. I shouldn’t have slept with you, that’s my fault. I’m sorry. It was selfish.”

Michael sighs, and when Louis looks up, he’s staring down at the ground in concentration, lip between his teeth. Louis still feels like a giant twat. When Michael looks up, meeting Louis’ gaze, he forces a small smile. “Thanks for telling me. I mean, I get it. I can’t imagine.”

“I’m just not ready.”

“That’s - that’s fair.” He nods, kicking himself off the wall. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says softly.

“Don’t be.” Michael approaches him, holding out his arms in hesitation.

Louis laughs, and goes in for the hug, wrapping his arms around Michael’s waist and resting his head on his chest. He kind of wishes hugs and sharing beds is all it could be - okay, and maybe the occasional shag. “Hey, if in six months or a year you’re still single, call me?” Louis offers when he pulls apart, smiling.

“Oh, count on it.”  

Louis laughs softly, a certain sadness pooling in his gut. He really does fancy Michael, and any other time or place Louis would want to give it a shot. He’d be crazy not to. He just feels a little too empty and way too guilty. He knows he still has so much healing left, and even more learning. Louis needs to know that he won’t make the same mistakes, wants to know he’s capable of loving properly before allowing someone to love him.

“Let me drive you home.”

Louis nods, accepting his offer as they move towards his car parked nearby.

They don’t talk until they pull up in front of Louis’ building. “Sorry again,” Louis says, fingers on the handle.

“It’s okay, I’m sure I’ll survive. Just give me a couple episodes of EastEnders.” He cracks a grin while Louis chuckles.

“Alright.” Louis opens the door, and just before he steps out, he adds in, “Don’t be afraid to buy flowers.”

Michael smiles and nods, holding his hand out in a wave. “Noted.”

“Bye Michael,” he says, closing the door behind him.

That night, he cuddles Rascall even closer than usual .

*

It’s late November when Louis checks his mail to see a handwritten letter mixed among bills and coupons. It’s addressed from Cambodia, and Louis knows immediately.

It’s not the usual postcard, and Louis can feel it stuffed thick with pages. Louis’ not sure why he does it, but he panics and leaves it buried at the bottom of his junk pile. He’s been waiting since January to hear from Harry, and now here it is, yet Louis is scared.

He leaves it for a week, feeling all too aware every time he passes it like it’s taunting him to open it. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore, and pours himself a large glass of wine before snuggling up on the couch. It feels heavy on his lap, and Louis doesn’t understand what he’s so scared of.

He takes a deep breath, and rips it open in one go. About a dozen photos fall out, but Louis leaves them scattered along the floor, only interested in the two pages covered in Harry’s familiar writing.

_Hi Lou,_

_I considered not even writing this. I’m not even sure if you want to hear from me. My guess is that no, you don’t, but I figured I’d give it a try anyway. It took me two months to get up the courage to write this. Well, technically, more like since March. I’m a coward though, what can I say?_

_I hope you’re doing okay. I can’t tell you how guilty I’ve felt ever since I got on that plane last year. It didn’t feel right at the time, and it definitely doesn’t feel any better now. I shouldn’t have done that, I shouldn’t have listened, but at the time, I thought I was respecting your wishes. I should’ve come back from LA the second I heard, and I should’ve stayed. I shouldn’t have remained silent for the past nine months. At that time I thought it was what was best for you, but now I see I was just being selfish. It was all about me. I was always so focused on how I had been wronged, how I hurt, that as soon as you were hurting more than me, I got scared. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I ran away. I ran away like I always do, pathetic and broken with my tail between my legs. And I am sorry, Lou. I am so sorry. I’m sorry that we have to keep apologising to each other. Why can’t we get it right? Why do we have to keep disappointing each other? Why do we keep coming back? If you want nothing to do with me, I completely understand. Feel free to rip this paper up and walk away from me for good. Finally put a period to all of this. We’ve never been good at doing that._

_If you’re still reading this, I guess you weren’t angry enough to rip up the paper yet, so I might as well fill you in on what I’ve been up to. I started in Thailand. I was there for the first nine months, mostly bumming around on the beach. I did work a few jobs here and there, taught English. It was mostly for a home and food, but everything is so cheap here that I get by on what I have. I loved it there. I made some friends, spent some time at an elephant rehabilitation centre. I made a friend named, Molly. :) I left last week, and now I’m in Cambodia. It’s been nice. Relaxing, therapeutic. You could say I’ve gotten pretty spiritual. You’d probably laugh and call me a hippy bum if you saw me. As silly as it all is, I think I need it._

_Other than me, I really hope that you’re doing well, Louis. I know it’s coming up to a year. I’ve thought about you a lot, sometimes more than I care to admit. You’ll laugh, but I should tell you that often while I’m doing my meditations, I send positive thoughts into the universe for you. Sometimes, I just pray to God, depending on how I’m feeling that day. I don’t know if it does anything, but it’s worth a shot._

_If this is all too late, I understand. Just know that I’ve thought about you, and that I’m sorry. If it’s not, I wouldn’t at all be opposed to a letter. I should be here for awhile yet, so if you just send it to the return address I should get it._

_Missing you._

_Love, Harry._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings:** (past) mental illness, suicide.


	9. viii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairing:** harry styles/louis tomlinson

_ viii. harry _

Harry spends New Year’s in Vietnam, sand in his hair and feet in the ocean. His two friends are at his side, laughing into each other’s shoulders. Harry closes his eyes and draws an arrow in the sand.

Harry hasn’t been home in sixteen months. Home - nowadays he has to remind himself of that, that somewhere in this world there is a place that he actually does belong. Harry’s used to being weightless, drifting around the world, no place to fix himself or lay an anchor down. The idea of doing so is both intriguing and terrifying. Harry doesn’t remember what it feels like to have comfort and familiarity in a home.

Harry is nearly twenty-three, and he can’t run away forever, but he can keep trying.

Lucy and Dom strip off their clothes and dive into the water, creating a ripple in the moon’s reflection. Harry joins them, home written in the sand.

*

Harry doesn’t have much, but he keeps Louis’ letters with him, stuffed inside a fraying envelope.

_People don’t understand me when I say that William was easy to love. How could it be when it was so unhealthy? From the fights and guilt-trips and breakdowns and threats? When a large part of our relationship was me trying to fix his wounds and failing? The thing is, it was easy because there was never a focus on me. It was always about William - what William needed, how he felt, where William was broken. I’m not saying I didn’t love him, because I did, and at the time I thought I was doing him good, being there for him. But now I see that it was selfish, was loving him worth it when I couldn’t love him the way he needed or deserved? It was easy because I had control. Because I was the level-headed one. Being with him gave me a false sense of strength and purpose. He didn’t terrify me in the way that you did. He may have been broken and unpredictable, but I had control in ways that I never had with you._

He doesn’t know what to think of them most of the time, doesn’t know where to place the words and have them stick. Louis’ said a lot, enough that Harry feels like he has his entire being kept inside the pocket of his backpack. Louis talks about things that Harry can’t grasp, and Harry talks about the ocean. Sometimes he’ll just send an envelope full of pictures, with thoughts, a poem, a Taoist teaching written on the back.

_William hated you, you know? I can’t remember why I ever told him about us. I guess I didn’t think it would be a big deal as long as I played it off like it wasn’t. I guess I’m not as good of an actor as I’d like to think. For nearly three years he’d throw you back in my face like it was punishment. Like he knew you had a piece of me that he’d never get._

He gets a letter from Louis once, maybe twice a month. He figures he lost some along the way, as Harry never has an address for long. Harry knows Louis misses him, can read it between his words and the way he’s spilt across the paper. He knows his family misses him, same with Zayn, Niall and Liam. He misses them all, he misses Louis most of all, but instead of going home he heads to Malaysia and then Indonesia. Harry couldn’t tell you why.

_He couldn’t compete with you and he knew it. I did too, in a way, but it wasn’t until you got back from Japan that I really realized. It was during our fake Christmas that I realized I would chose you every time._

In Bali, Harry receives another letter from Louis. He doesn’t read the entire thing before folding it up and adding it to the rest of them. He spends two weeks on the beach, Louis’ words floating along with him before he’s booking a flight back home.

_That’s why I couldn’t see you after he died. I carried around so much guilt in those three years we were together that when he killed himself, it all came out. How wasn’t it my fault? He might’ve held you above me, but that’s only because I did it first. How could he live up to you when I wouldn’t even give him the chance? When I held myself back from him, never fully there, never fully giving myself to him?_

Harry’s twenty-three, and he can’t run away forever.

_I couldn’t love him the way he deserved, because I was too busy loving you._

*

Harry instantly regrets his decision. Having spent the past year and a half in tropical weather, Harry can’t understand what possessed him into thinking that returning to England in the middle of autumn was a good idea. Everything is dull and drab and grey, and the second he steps off the plane, Harry is already planning his next escape. But then his mum is holding him against her chest, crying along with Robin and Gemma, and soon Harry is crying too.

Outside the airport windows, the sky is grey and the wind is howling, but he feels warm. He knows this is where he’s meant to be.

*

Harry doesn’t get a hold of Louis right away. They haven’t lived in the same city for close to six years. Louis’ boyfriend died, and Harry wasn’t there. Despite the stuffed envelope containing all of Louis’ letters over the past eleven months, Harry still doesn’t have a clue what to do now. So many confessions and unspoken words written across those pages, and Harry is scared.

He sees Zayn, Niall and Liam over the next week, but doesn’t contact Louis. He knows he’s making it even worse. Harry never even told him he was coming home, though he’s sure Louis must know by now.

He attempts to call him three times, never managing to make it past Louis’ contact screen.

On the eighth day, after getting the address from Zayn, he forces himself over to Louis’ work. He waits outside until Louis closes up the shop, dressed in a raincoat and a scarf, a large umbrella shielding him from the rain. Nearly a half an hour passes before the door is opening and Louis comes out, locking the door behind him. He’s wearing a jean jacket and a maroon beanie pulled past his ears. He looks so adorable that Harry can feel it all the way in his toes.

It’s been nearly two years, but he looks just as Harry remembered him.

When Louis turns to see Harry leaning against the brick wall, he jumps, startled. “Jesus, Harry,” he curses, holding his hand to his chest. Harry grins sheepishly while Louis recovers, and once he realizes that it is, in fact, Harry standing in front of him, he grins. “Harry,” he repeats, softer this time.

Harry pulls himself from the wall and stands straighter, meeting Louis’ eyes. “Hi,” he says. Words are racing throughout his mind but not a single one stops long enough to reach his tongue.

“Hey.”

Harry was expecting Louis to be cross with him. He certainly should be, with Harry not contacting him for eight whole days. Yet Louis keeps on smiling. They stare at each other for a minute, rain drizzling between them, before Louis takes two large steps forward and engulfs Harry into a hug.

Louis sinks into him instantly, arms snug around his waist, face to his chest. At first Harry stands there, one arm looped around his shoulder and the other suspended awkwardly above them with the umbrella, before finally giving in. He falls boneless against Louis’, chin rested against the top of his head. Harry doesn’t understand how after all this time, Louis still manages to cause such a strong reaction in him. Harry can feel all the tension seep out from within his bones, but his heart never stops racing, pounding furiously away inside his ribcage.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says eventually, mumbled into Louis’ hair.

Louis shakes his head and says nothing. He gives one last tight squeeze, nose running along Harry’s chest before he pulls away. He keeps his hand on Harry’s elbow and looks up at him through thick eyelashes, still smiling. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Harry looks at his blue eyes, his pink cheeks, and nods. “Me too.” He glances down to Louis’ gloved hand, and says, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Louis shrugs easily. “You’re here now.”

“Yeah,” Harry says with a dry throat.

Louis runs his eyes over Harry’s, thoughtful, and Harry resists ducking further into his scarf. He feels a little too nervous, and Louis’ seems a little too calm. Words were written and read and felt with miles between them. Now the miles have vanished, but the words haven’t. Now Louis’ here, older and somehow even more beautiful, with lines around his mouth and eyes full of wisdom and hope and heartbreak.

“Come on,” Louis says, slipping his arm into Harry’s. He leads them down the sidewalk, both of them shielded by Harry’s umbrella. They walk an entire block in silence, Harry listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, before Louis says, “How does it feel being back?”

“Um, yeah. It’s weird.”

“Are you planning the next big adventure?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head and swallows. “I think I’ll be sticking around for awhile this time.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. When Harry looks over, he’s smiling at his shoes.

They walk another block in silence, and this time Harry asks, “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing well, thanks.” Louis glances up at Harry, squeezing his arm lightly. “How are you, Harry?”

Harry feels silly over the way his chest flares at the way Louis says his name. His mum had laughed at him for wearing a scarf in October, but Harry’s even more thankful for his choice as he ducks further into it, hoping his feelings aren’t strewed across his face. “Not bad.”

Louis turns them down a street Harry isn’t familiar with. He recalls Louis’ telling him in one of his letters that he was living in a flat with his tabby, Rascall. Harry’s about to ask him how he likes living on his own when they come to a stop in front of a brick building, Louis’ arm slipping from his. “Well, this is my place,” he says.

Harry looks up at the building and then back to Louis, slightly confused as to why they’re stopped on the sidewalk instead of walking to the door.

“It was really nice seeing you.” He leans in for another hug, much shorter than the previous, but he holds on just as tightly. “Bye Harry,” he says once he pulls away, meeting his gaze briefly before starting towards the door without him. Harry stares after him, even more confused. He kind of thought they’d catch up.

He watches as Louis puts his key into the lock, turning back and waving before disappearing inside. Harry wasn’t even given the chance to wave back. Maybe Louis is mad, after all.

Harry returns to the flower shop the following day, and the next day, and the next. Each time Louis looks genuinely happy to see him, and each time he links his arm through Harry’s as they walk towards his flat, conversation slowly becoming more fluent.

Louis always dashes into his apartment without inviting Harry, and Harry never asks. Except on the fourth day, Louis says, “It’s my day off tomorrow.”

Harry nods, about to say he’ll see Louis on Thursday then, but before he can, Louis says, “You should come over for dinner.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, blushing once he realizes he sounds a little too hopeful.

Louis grins. “Yeah. I mean, I’m yet to be a chef, but my cooking skills have improved marginally. I can make some pretty mean pasta.”

Harry laughs, and says, “Okay, yeah. I’ll be there.”

Louis stands on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around Harry’s neck, hugging him close until their bodies are flush. So far, there hasn’t been a day where Louis hasn’t given him a hug goodbye. Harry can’t say he minds one bit.

Once he starts towards the door, Louis turns and says, “Be here at six, yeah?”

“Six,” Harry repeats, hands shoved inside his coat pockets.

Louis smiles and ducks his head, turning back towards the door. Harry waits until the door shuts behind him before heading home.

*

Harry shows up a minute before six with hair wet from the rain and a plateful of homemade cookies. He feels ridiculous the second Louis opens the door. Who brings a plate of cookies to a sort of, not really, date? Or is it a date? He has no idea. He misses the days when he was able to read Louis better than he could read himself.

Louis welcomes him in, and doesn’t even bat an eyelash as he takes the plate to set it on the counter. Instead, he leans in for a hug, squeezing him around the middle. Harry knows they were affectionate as youth, though he’s not sure it was quite to this extent. Harry still doesn’t mind.

“It smells good,” he says once Louis pulls away.

“Thank you. It’s only spaghetti with meatballs, but I actually made the meatballs from scratch!” He grins proudly. “I hope they’re not complete shit.”

“I’m sure it’ll be good.”

Louis nods, looking over Harry in a way that isn't subtle. This time, instead of ducking away in abashment, Harry stares back. Since returning, Harry hasn’t seen him without a beanie or coat. He can see him better now, the shine to his hair, the deep blue of his eyes, his tiny body tucked inside jeans and a t-shirt. Harry can see his ankles, feet bare, and god, he’s missed those ankles.

Harry doesn’t know how else to describe him besides that he looks - soft. Beautiful, of course, always so painfully beautiful, but there’s this looseness to him now, like all the tension has been squeezed out from where it hid inside his bones. His eyes are wide and expressive, shimmering even, the corners of his mouth soft and pliant. Harry thinks that if he were to reach for him, instead of touching wall like he used to, he’d just feel Louis.

Louis’ the first to break the moment, pulling himself out of Harry’s view with pink cheeks. “Did you want some wine? I think I might have a bottle or two of beer lying around if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, no thanks,” Harry says, joining him near the fridge. “I’m good with water.”

Louis narrows his eyes, suspiciously. “You don’t drink anymore?”

Harry shrugs. “Not really.”

Louis smiles, reaching to flick the colourful bracelets that line Harry’s wrist. “So you really did go all Zen on me.”

Harry shrugs again, laughing as he attempts to hide himself behind his hair. “It’s not - it’s just a part of being more healthy, I guess. The whole meditation-spiritual thing comes from being in Southeast Asia for almost two years, I think. I wouldn’t necessarily say I’ve gone all Zen.”

Louis nods, opening the fridge to pull out a jug of water. Harry takes a better look at the magnets and pictures that cover the door, and he spots a few of his own spread throughout - photos from Asia mostly, but tucked in the corner he sees his postcard from Italy, the first one he ever sent. He feels a rush of blood to his face, realizing that Louis has kept it after all of these years. “You weren’t healthy before?” Louis asks, pulling his attention from the collection.

“Uh, no. Well, I mean. Sort of?” he says, attempting to regain control of his thoughts. “I think I just spent a lot of time trying to like, ‘find myself’ but in all the wrong places, you know?” He diverts his eyes from Louis as he pours them both a glass of water.

“How so?” he probes.

Harry scratches behind his ear, laughing uneasily. He wasn’t intending on digging in this deep within the first five minutes of walking into Louis’ flat - preferably, not at all. There was a reason he didn’t reach the same level of honesty as Louis in his letters. Now that Louis is standing right here, he can’t just pretend that he conveniently forgot to answer a question or three. “Well, I guess part of it was travelling around, and never like, really getting rooted somewhere. And, I don’t know, I guess I thought I’d find myself in places or experiences. Or, well, people. Relationships, really.” He laughs again, nervous, and says, “And uh, sex too, I suppose. I tried it all.”

Louis turns to face him, holding out the glass for Harry to take. “So, is that why you went to Asia? To find yourself?” Louis asks collectedly. He takes a sip of water, watching Harry over the top of the rim.

Harry tightens his grip around his own glass, eyes dropping from Louis’. “I guess, yeah. In a way.” He laughs, shoulders tense. “I think that was the idea.”

“And did you?”

“Wow, getting right into it, aren’t you?”

Louis shrugs, smiling unapologetically. “I’m curious. It was usually me that was doing all the talking in the letters.”

Harry feels his stomach clench at the mention of the letters. He's not sure how he’s meant to react to them just yet, so he ignores it entirely. “I’m not sure if I did. Probably not. Probably not like I hoped, at least.”

“It’s so over-rated anyway.”

“Have you found yourself then, Louis?” Harry raises an eyebrow, smiling in hopes to lighten the mood.

Harry is expecting him to say yes. It seems as much with the apparent changes he sees in him, but Louis shakes his head. “Probably not as much as you’d think for someone who’s had over a hundred therapy sessions in the past two years.”

Harry frowns. “I’m s - ”

Louis puts up his hand, cutting him off. “Don’t say it.”

Harry sighs, hanging his head in defeat. “I shouldn’t have left,” he mumbles anyway.

“Harry,” Louis says firmly. “We’ve been over this. I didn’t want you here. I told you to go.”

“I know, but I should’ve stayed. Even for awhile.”

When Harry looks up from his feet, Louis is very pointedly staring at him, lips pulled together in aggravation. “Look,” he says, “if I were to be honest, sometimes I was pissed at you. But I knew it was stupid because I told you to leave. At the time, I didn’t want you here. You didn’t owe me in the slightest.”

“It’s not about owing,” Harry says at once. “I didn’t even - I didn’t even try to stay around.”

He shrugs, sighing, swishing the water around inside his cup before saying, “I meant it, Harry. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He looks up at him, and offers a small smile. “You were off doing your thing and ‘finding yourself’ and so was I. Like I said, I really didn’t want to see you. A part of me wanted you to be there so I knew you were there, so I knew you were just down that street had I needed you. But looking back, I’m glad you weren’t, because I would’ve. I would’ve needed you. I would’ve gone to you and it only would’ve made that guilt worse, you know? You would’ve become too entangled and I’m sure I would’ve taken it out on you. You being here would’ve made it so much more difficult and confusing, and the process would’ve taken longer. It’s something that I needed to go through without you.”

Harry lets the silence blanket between them, mulling over Louis’ words. He still feels guilty, thinks he always will be no matter what Louis says. From the moment he stayed in LA to the moment he got on the plane to Thailand, and all the way to this day. All of it had been Louis’ wishes, and he had made that clear in his letters, but Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he had made the wrong choice. Maybe he should’ve tried harder. Maybe he should’ve stuck around, even if he never saw Louis, so long as he knew he cared. No matter how many times Louis says it’s okay, Harry is horrified over the idea that it looks as if he took William’s death so callously that it was easy for him to get on that plane. It was one of the worst decisions that Harry had ever made, but Zayn had been so insistent, and Louis wasn’t answering his calls, and Harry was scared. Terrified he wouldn’t be enough for Louis, terrified over the fact that Louis didn’t want to see him, and that Harry didn’t have a clue as to why.

Finally, Harry looks up at Louis, and says, “Do you still feel guilty being around me?”

Louis shakes his head. “No,” he says honestly. “Parts of me still feel like I’m to blame, but. For the most part I know it was out of my control. And I do believe that William’s forgiven me for the places that I fell short.” He pauses, and adds slowly, “And I think that includes you.”

Harry nods, not knowing what to say.

Louis looks over him for a moment longer, thoughtful, and Harry forces himself not to duck away. He wonders what Louis sees. He’s curious to know because Harry’s at a place where he’s not even sure what he sees in himself.

Louis breaks his gaze to go stir the pasta. Harry asks if he needs help with anything, and Louis asks him to set the table, directing him towards the right cupboard. Harry does so while Louis finishes up, placing two plates and cutlery on Louis’ small table in the next room. There’s a beautiful flower arrangement on the table, the window beside looking out over the quiet street. Harry looks around to the adjoining living room, plants and flowers tastefully placed throughout. Louis has done an amazing job of decorating his place, classy and sophisticated, but still with bits of Louis in between - framed photos of friends and family, a large shelf of DVDs and videogames, a vintage-looking football poster, and a Spiderman figurine on display. It looks like a proper adult’s flat, and Harry realizes that at twenty-six, that’s what Louis is now.

A few minutes into the meal, Louis takes a sip of his water and looks at Harry tentatively. “So, whatever happened to your record deal?”

Harry shrugs, avoiding eye contact as he twists spaghetti around his fork. “They decided to go with someone else at the last minute.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess that’s how show business works, right?” He looks up at Louis, offering a small smile. “It was disappointing, yeah. I had spent so much time and effort on it, but at the end of the day, I might be better off without it. I don’t know how long I would’ve been able to play it off, the person they wanted me to be. It would only be a matter of time before I was caught with my trousers around my ankles and cock in another man.” He decidedly leaves out the part where his boyfriend dropped him just as quickly as the fame did.

Louis chokes on his pasta, spluttering, but he quickly covers it up with a nervous laugh, cheeks pink. “Sure.”

Harry takes a bite of a meatball, grinning into his fork.

The conversation falls lighter afterwards, Harry telling him about his time in Asia. He’s sure he’s repeating a lot of what was said in his letters, but Louis nods along anyway, taking it in with intrigue through bites of spaghetti. When Harry finishes, he says, “Wow, and look at me, I’ve never even been outside of the UK.”

“You’re still young. Plus, it’s not always what it’s cracked out to be, you know?”

Louis shrugs, raking his fork through the left-overs. “Maybe. But I’m twenty-six, that’s not that young. People my age are starting to like, settle down and stuff. All I have is an unfinished doctorate and a dead boyfriend.”

Harry stares at him from across the table, ears prickling, at a loss of how to respond. Thankfully, Louis raises his hand to his mouth, muffling a laugh. “Sorry, sometimes I make inappropriate jokes about it. It used to be worse. A coping mechanism and all of that, you know?” Louis makes a pained face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s okay.” Harry says quickly. “I just - I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything. Really.” He doesn’t give Harry the chance to reply even if he _did_ know what to say, before motioning towards his plate, “You all done there?” Harry nods, and Louis stands, taking both their plates.

“That was really good, Louis,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

Louis smiles bashfully. “Thanks, Harry.”

Despite Harry’s offers, Louis refuses to let him do the dishes. “I’d rather hang out with you, not watch you do my dishes,” he says, and Harry can’t protest. Louis makes tea for them, bringing the plate of cookies with them into the living room.

They sit on either ends of the sofa, feet pulled up and cookies between. Louis talks about work, and even though Harry knows nothing about flowers, he’s interested in the way that Louis tells him about it excitedly, eyes lighting up. He tells Harry he has no idea what he wants to do with his life, if he even wants to finish his degree, that he hasn’t been back to Oxford since, and Harry admits he’s just as clueless. Louis tells him about the new friends he’s made through work and the lads, that him and Perrie have gotten closer, and he teases that might even like her better than Zayn now. He tells of the roadtrip the four of them took to Ireland to visit Niall’s family and attend a music festival. Harry was living in a beach hut at the time, swimming with tropical fish and eating fresh fruit off the tree, but he feels a twinge of jealousy anyway.

Harry is content to listen to him talk, to watch the way his hands move, the way his eyes shimmer and light up, and the frequent animated changes in his expression. He talks just as much as he always has, but Harry can still see the change. He’s less abrasive, more slow and thought-out, giving Harry the time to take in and savour his words.

“You’re different,” Harry says after a pause, curious. “You’re more - ”

“Calm?”

Harry smiles. “I was going to say open. Soft, kind of.”

Louis looks down at his lap, fringe fanning in front of his eyes, looking suddenly very interested in his hangnail. There’s a lap of silence, long enough that Harry thinks he might not respond at all, until he’s looking back with a reflective expression. “I guess I just spent my life being so - closed off, and hard. I lost a lot of people because of it. I decided what was the point of living like that? Hurting people I loved?” Harry nods in understanding, and Louis adds, admittedly, “Granted, it took quite a few therapy sessions to get there.” Harry isn’t given the chance to say anything before Louis’ peering at him. “Interesting you brought that up because I was thinking that you’ve become closed off.”

Harry’s not sure whether to be surprised over that. He knows he hasn’t been the same since LA, but he can trace the gradual chipping away back to Year Twelve. Of course he’s faced a lot of natural hardships that most people experience during their lives, but he thinks it’s a mixture of that and throwing himself into the world with such naiveté, of always finding people who couldn’t love him the way he wanted them to. Harry’s been let down, and he knows he’s lost a lot of that blind trust that he once had, but Harry never stopped to think that maybe that also meant being closed off.

“I - ” Harry frowns, fumbling for words. “I guess I’ve just had a lot of disappointments.” He stops, cheeks colouring once he realizes his mistake. Louis’ boyfriend _killed himself_ , and he’s talking about disappointments? “I mean - that was. You have too. Sorry.”

“That doesn’t make yours any less,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Harry says, absentmindedly. “I guess, but I mean, you didn’t let yours break you.”

“You’re not broken either.” Louis looks him directly in the eye, and Harry looks down at his feet. They fall into silence, and Harry picks at his socks while Louis grabs for a cookie. Once he’s finished chewing, Louis takes a deep breath and asks, “Harry, did you get my last letter?”

Harry’s eyes flick up to meet Louis’, taken aback by the sudden admission. Harry isn’t sure what he was expecting. Whether he’d go about ignoring it in hopes that Louis wouldn’t bring it up, or whether he’d be the one to bring it up, telling Louis he felt the same. The thing is, while Harry knows he feels much of the same, he’s unsure as to where to go from here or what it even means. Harry hasn’t seen him in two years, they haven’t been them for even longer. He couldn’t bring it up when he didn’t even know what to say.

For one brief moment, Harry considers lying, but Louis’ looking at him with such wide eyes, shiny and vulnerable, that Harry has to say yes.

Louis looks surprised himself, and he blinks, waiting for Harry to continue. Harry still doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps his mouth shut and watches the candle on Louis’ table flicker.

“Okay,” Louis says eventually, “I just wanted to make sure, I guess. I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply.”

Louis doesn’t respond right away, and Harry is still too scared to look over and see the expression on his face. He’s quiet when he says, “I know. But you’re here. That’s a response, isn’t it?”

Harry’s not even sure what he meant by coming home. One day he was happy in Indonesia, home a distant memory, and two weeks after reading Louis’ letter he had a plane ticket home. Is that what that was?

“I wasn’t expecting you to say anything back,” Louis says. “I’m just trying to be more honest about things. I didn’t mean to scare you. We were just writing so much, and I was saying so many things, and I just thought.” He lets a shrug say the rest.

Harry pulls his legs into his chest, resting his chin on his knee. Once again, Harry has a thousand thoughts running through his mind, but not a single one slows down long enough for him to catch it.

“I’m not expecting anything,” Louis insists, though Harry wonders. With the hugs, and linked arms, and cooked dinner. The _I know this might make me crazy, but I don’t think I ever stopped loving you._ He must expect something, just like Harry expects something, even though he has no idea what that is. He wonders if everything always has to be so complicated between them. Will it ever make sense, or are they destined to dance around each other, always hesitant, always hovering near the edge but never quite jumping?

“And even if - ” Louis stops, breathing out heavily. “A lot has happened. I wouldn’t - ”

“Yeah,” Harry says because he gets it.

Louis sighs, sounding exhausted. “I just wanted you to know.”  

Harry _knows_ that he is crazy. He knows he hasn’t stopped loving Louis since he was fourteen. It’s crazy, he’s crazy, and instead of feeling warm, he just feels sick.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Harry says muffled into his knees.

“Well,” Louis asks, slow, hesitant, “Why’d you come back?”

Harry looks at him, and says, “I don’t know.” He doesn’t mean to be a total tosser, but he actually doesn’t know.

Louis closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, as if counting to ten in his head. When he opens them again, Harry’s nearly taken back by the blue, as if in those few short moments he had forgotten how beautiful they are. “Harry, do you have any sort of feelings for me? It’s okay if you don’t. I just think that given our past, if we’ re going to be in each others lives we need to have more of an idea of what direction we’re aiming for, you know? I don’t want it to get any messier.” He sighs, knocking his feet together. “I really don’t blame you if you don’t trust me, or wouldn’t even like, think about the idea of going there with me because of what I did, but - ”

“That was over six years ago, Louis. I’m well past that.”  

He shrugs. “Yeah, but still. I wouldn’t blame you. It was a pretty shitty thing.”

Harry says nothing.

Louis sighs again, but this time his frustration comes through. “Harry,” he says, a bit desperately. “I’m trying really hard to be honest here. I might seem all open and stuff now and whatever, but it’s still really hard. I didn’t want to push, but you’re not saying anything, and I really wish you would. _Something_. I have no idea what page you’re on right now, or what you’re thinking. I get all of this is completely insane seeing all the shit that’s went on and the fact that we’ve been in and out of each other’s lives for the past six or so years. And I realized saying that was huge, and I knew I risked the chance that it wouldn’t be reciprocated at all, but you’re here now. You’re here, which means you can’t be too freaked out, but you’re not saying anything. I’m trying to be honest here, but I don’t even know what to think.”  

Harry could just tell him he’s in love with him. Louis kind of said it, so he could too. He could at least admit to some lingering, left-over, chemically-induced feelings. God, Louis said he might still _love him_ , and he’s right there, and it’s all Harry’s wanted to hear for so long, but - but he just can’t. Something feels a little too raw, a little too real, and even though Harry’s wanted this, he’s not prepared. There are too many things in the way, too many things that have happened that can’t be reversed. Harry has a closet full of skeletons - broken hearts and lost dreams and pieces of himself in random people’s beds. Louis has things that Harry’s not equipped to deal with. Harry watches Louis from across the couch, and thinks about how six years brought them to this. To Louis the one open before him, and himself the one running away. It’s been six years, how are they supposed to know that they still fit together? How do they know they haven’t grown apart?

Harry can’t say it, but Louis is staring at him so helplessly that he can’t just ignore it and pretend it never happened. Louis said all these things, and that’s not something Harry can just run away from. Harry has to stop running away at some point.

He sits up on his knees, setting the cookie platter on the ground before closing the space between them, knees knocking against Louis’ feet. Louis stares up at him, eyes wide and imploring. He doesn’t move to make it any easier for Harry, so Harry braces himself on the back of the couch, leaning towards him. He keeps his eyes locked with Louis’ until the last possible second, breathes, and kisses him.

Louis kisses him back, and even though his knees are between them, his hands at his sides, Harry can feel the purpose in it, can feel it against his lips. It’s tentative, willing, and despite the strain in Harry’s back, he kisses him harder. Six fucking years, and Harry puts all of it into that kiss.

Louis’ hand finds Harry’s jaw, fingers stroking past his ear. Everything’s buzzing, heart pounding and chest constricting, and Harry can’t _think_.

Louis breaks apart long enough to stretch his legs out, allowing Harry to situate himself over them. Harry feels desperate as he kisses him, almost too much, kissing him long and hard and deep into the armrest. Louis returns them just as intently, hand in his curls.They only just started, and Harry already feels like he can never get enough.

Harry cannot say it, but he can do this.

He reaches for Louis stomach, pushing his shirt up. He wants to touch him, wants to make sure he’s real. He feels his stomach muscles contract under his touch, and Harry feels hot, like he wants to dig in deep.

Harry’s hips begin to move all on their own, all hot breaths and tongues, and he wants Louis so badly that he goes blind. _This_ is the desperation Harry was afraid of.

Both of Louis’ hands find their way in Harry’s hair now, thumb along his jaw before he’s pulling away. Harry doesn’t let him at first, Louis’ head nearly knocking against the armrest as Harry bumps their mouths back together.

“Harry, Harry, whoa,” he says, breathlessly. He pulls away entirely, keeping Harry’s head cradled in his hands. His thumbs brush against his ears, then his neck, shoulders and chest. Harry feels like he’s regaining his vision as he focuses on Louis’ swollen lips. His hand is still on his bare stomach, and Louis’ hands are splayed across his chest, fingers at his heart. “We can’t - we can’t rush it.”

Harry sighs, and leans forward, knocking his forehead against Louis’. He keeps it there, and breathes out through his mouth, eyes closed, attempting to regain his composure.

“I want to. Christ, do I want to,” Louis says softly, his words trickling hotly over Harry’s mouth. “It’ll just mess it up. If we actually want to try - we can’t just have sex after all this time and have everything suddenly be okay.” His hands trail back to Harry’s neck, fingers hot against his skin. Louis removes his forehead from his, and begins to press soft kisses along his face, his cheeks, his eyebrow, his chin and lips. Harry keeps his eyes closed, breathes steadily through his mouth, and decidedly focuses on Louis’ warmth over the thoughts in his head.  

Louis presses three consecutive kisses on his lips before kissing up his cheek to his ear. He nudges his nose along the lobe, and says, “I really wish you’d say something.”

Harry breathes in and out ten times before saying, “I want to bring you on a date.”

Louis laughs against his ear, breath so hot that Harry shivers. He holds onto Harry’s shoulders, and when Harry opens his eyes, he’s looking right at him, noses almost touching. “A date?”

“Sure.”

Louis smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling, fingers tracing the skin at the collar of his t-shirt. “Okay.” He tucks his head under Harry’s chin like a kitten, laying wet kisses along the sensitive skin. “Are you upset we’re not having sex?”

“Well, that’s a stupid question.”

Louis pulls his face from Harry’s neck to look at him, making a face, nose and forehead wrinkled. “Hey, no need to get sassy,” he says, pinching his shoulder.

Harry laughs, and kisses him. It all feels too easy, like no time has passed between them, and while it should be good, Harry still feels a little nauseous. “It’s okay,” he manages to say, “you’re right.”

“Okay, but just - ” He grins cheekily, placing his hands back on Harry’s shoulder to pull him, connecting their lips. The first five consecutive kisses he presses onto Harry are no more than quick pecks, but he allows the last one to linger a little longer, pulling away before Harry can sink into it. “Sorry, I’ve just waited way too long to kiss you again.”

“We can just kiss,” Harry murmurs into the corner of his mouth, fingers tickling around his hips.

“Maybe, if you weren’t ready to rip my clothes off less than five minutes ago, and - ” he smirks, grabbing onto Harry’s hands that are still pawing up his shirt, “you weren’t still trying to.”

Harry lets Louis intertwine their fingers as he grins cheekily at him. “What can I say? I’ve waited six years.”  

“You’ve seem to have forgotten that I have class,” Louis says teasingly, squeezing his fingers. “You haven’t even brought me on a date.”

“I will,” Harry promises, bending down to sneak a kiss before Louis’ can protest. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Louis raises an eyebrow.

Harry kisses him again, his ‘mhm’ muffled against Louis’ mouth. Harry doesn’t know if he can stop kissing him long enough to get up and go home. Six fucking years, and it’s real and happening. His brain is in a constant battle of tug-o-war, and he’s not sure if it’s happiness or fear that has the stronger pull.

“A real date?”

“As real as it gets, baby.” Harry winks.

Louis giggles, and God, Harry wants to package him up and never let him out of his sight again. Louis cards his hands through Harry’s hair, pushing the curls out of his face. “Are you going to pick me up and come to my door and everything? And open doors and pull out my chair?”

Harry laughs, ducking his head down to brush their lips together. “I wouldn’t think of anything less.”

Louis grins. He kisses Harry back, long enough that he’s able to run with it, pushing into him and opening his mouth with his tongue.

“Or you could just fuck me now,” Harry says huskily into his mouth.

Louis growls, pushing him back by his shoulders. “Go away. I’m trying to be the responsible one.” There’s a faint blush across his cheeks, and Harry grins in victory. Louis’ squeezes his side in retaliation, and says, “You’re evil.”

Harry wiggles his eyes mischievously, and Louis rolls his eyes, saying, “I’m just glad the kissing got you to lighten up a bit. You were so tense.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, feeling embarrassed that he let it show so clearly.

Louis smiles softly, reaching to push some of Harry’s curls behind his ear. He’s looking at him in a way that Harry hasn’t experienced in awhile; all sparkling eyes and long eyelashes and soft lips, and it feels thick and tangible in the air between them. It gets under Harry’s skin and sticks, burning enough that he scrambles off Louis’ lap, standing up.

A small hint of confusion replaces Louis’ expression, and Harry feels as distraught as he looks over the loss of contact. “Maybe I should go home now,” he says, although the thought is as unappealing as it sounds leaving his mouth.

Louis frowns, and sits up, shifting himself so his feet touch the carpet. “Why?”

“Because I - I want to respect your decision not to do anything more, and if I stayed here and we kept doing this, we might not keep to it.”

Louis’ frown quickly disintegrates, and he’s nodding, laughing quietly. “Yeah, I guess you’re probably right.”

“I’m always right.” Harry grins cheekily.

Rolling his eyes, Louis stands and stops an inch from Harry, hands on his stomach. Harry feels like a teenager with the way butterflies erupt underneath. “Are you though?”

Harry presses his lips together, reconsidering. “Never,” he says, admittedly.

Louis laughs, standing on his tiptoes to brush his lips against Harry’s. Louis allows them to kiss for another five minutes, long enough and intense enough for Harry to feel it building in his gut until Louis is stepping back, pushing Harry by his chest. “Okay, you can leave now.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stifling a mischievous giggle.

Harry stares at him, chest heaving, and semi-hard inside his trousers. “God, you make me feel like a teenager all over again.”

“Good,” Louis grins, walking towards the door with swaying hips, “It’s like no time has passed at all.” He takes Harry’s jacket from the coat rack, and holds it out for him.

Once Harry has his jacket on, Louis barely manages a goodbye out before Harry’s pushing him against the door, hot mouth back on his.

It takes another ten minutes until Harry’s leaving for good, now definitely hard inside his trousers, Louis giggling with swollen lips as he pushes him out the door. “Get out of here,” he says through the crack in the door, using it as a shield, “stop trying to steal my virtue.”

“I believe I took that from you a long time ago.” Harry smirks.

Louis groans, but Harry catches his blush before he closes the door even more, only a sliver left between them. “Go away before my neighbours come out to see some dodgy bloke standing outside my door and call the police.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, backing away, hands in the air in defeat. He barely makes it three steps away before the door flies open and Louis reaches for his collar, pulling him in for one last, bruising kiss. Before Harry can process it, he’s dashing back into his flat, yelling, “bye,” the door slamming behind him.

Harry grins all the way home. 


	10. viii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _continued from part a of chapter 8_

When Harry shows up at Louis’ flat the next day, he feels beyond ridiculous. The only thing he’s missing outside of his sweaty palms and blazer is a bouquet of roses. He’s spent the past eight hours going over why this was a stupid idea, always steps away from calling Louis and cancelling the whole thing. He can’t understand what possessed them into thinking that they were the type to go on dates, like teenagers giggling and asking to go steady over ice cream cones. This is Harry, and this is Louis, and he doesn’t know where _date_ fits into this whole complicated equation.

When Louis opens the door, he laughs.

Harry stands a little straighter and frowns. “What?”

Louis shakes his head, stifling his laugh behind his hand.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Harry asks with a hint of a whine.

“No, no,” Louis says quickly, waving him off. “You’re just - you’re more dressed up than I expected, is all.”

“It’s just a blazer,” Harry defends, cheeks reddening as he takes in Louis’ choice of a t-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry, I just figured we’d be going to a pub or Nando’s or something. I can go change if you have something else in mind.”

He turns to go and do just that, but Harry stops him by saying, “No, that’s fine. What you’re wearing is fine. We can go to Nando’s.”

When he looks back to Harry, he seems embarrassed, hand splayed across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean - I feel like a tosser.” Harry smiles, and thinks, _that makes two of us_ , and then Louis’ saying, “This is all just a little weird, you know?”

Even though Harry spent the entire day thinking the exact same thing, he steps back, feeling slightly alarmed. Is this the part where Louis tells him this was all a mistake? That he was wrong in wanting to start this - this _thing_?

Louis must read the look on his face because he rushes out with, “I mean, it’s just - we’re going on a _date_. It’s us. I just never thought.” He shakes his head, looking even more embarrassed over his inability to form proper sentences. “I didn’t mean it like _that_."

“We can just stay in and watch movies and eat ice-cream from the tub?” Harry suggests.

“No, I want to go out,” Louis says with certainty. After a pause, he adds, “Though that does sound nice. We should do that next time."

“Okay,” Harry says, unsure as to where this leaves them.

“Can we start again?” Louis asks.

Harry nods, chuckling under his breath. “Sure.”

Louis smiles bashfully, taking small steps towards Harry. “Hi, you look good. I like your blazer.”

“Thanks, so do you. I like your t-shirt.” Harry grins, admiring  the creamy strip of skin revealed by his swooping neckline. He makes under-dressed look classy, and Harry has to fight the urge to pull him into his chest, kissing him until it hurts. Even though it was only yesterday that they were snogging like their life depended on it, they both stand close but not touching, tense and uncertain.

“Where are we going?” Louis asks, continuing the charade.

“I was thinking Nando’s.”

“A really romantic soul must’ve helped you come up with that one.”  

“Most romantic of them all.” Harry winks.

Louis laughs, and steps forward, looking at Harry heavily. For a moment Harry’s sure he’s going to kiss him before it’s as if he suddenly changes his mind and darts to the left to take his jacket from the rack. Harry tries not to feel disappointed.

Harry has sweaty palms the entire drive to Nando’s. He’s thankful for his choice of blazer, no matter Louis’ giggles, because he fears he might be sweating through his shirt underneath. Louis’ seems worlds calmer, humming softly with the radio. Louis said this is weird for him, but Harry is beginning to think he doesn’t have a clue.

Harry sneaks glances at him every chance he gets, just to make sure it’s real. To make sure Louis is real. Only once does Louis notice, catching his eyes and grinning. When Harry turns back to the road, hoping the blush isn’t obvious in the dark, he feels Louis’ hand on his thigh. It’s a quick squeeze, what he assumes is meant to be comforting, but Harry just feels all the more nervous.

Turns out, he’s thankful Louis suggested Nando’s after all. It’s packed with loud families and packs of youth eating chips, and it helps to make everything between them a little less - intense. It’s not that Harry’s original choice in restaurant was overly posh or romantic, but he’s sure there would’ve at least been a tablecloth. Tablecloths are kind of romantic.

Up until their waitress brings their food, things are a little awkward, to say the very least. Harry admits that most of it is due to him. It’s not like they haven’t been to Nando’s together just the two of them, but that was years and years ago and it wasn’t classified as a date. It may be Nando’s but it all feels too formal, and Harry is over-thinking it. Over-thinking the way he looks and speaks, so much that Louis talks about flowers and his mum and his siblings and movies he’s seen and all Harry can do is nod and laugh out of place. By the time the food arrives he has an entire napkin shredded, little papers stuck all over his trousers. He has never been this nervous around Louis. Never. And he hates it. He wonders if it’s due to the apparent sexual tension. Maybe he just really needs to kiss Louis again. And fuck him. Yes. That would do it.

Louis eats precisely two chips before looking at Harry carefully. “You seem nervous?” he says it like a question, as if not wanting to offend Harry over such an assumption. He’s being _too_ nice. Harry hates that too.

“No…” he attempts, but then blinks, shaking his head, knowing it’s useless to try and pretend. “You’re right. It’s a little weird.”

“Right?” Louis says. He laughs, sounding relieved. “I keep going between treating this like a first date and trying to like, impress you, and then realizing, oh it’s just Harry, and wanting to tell you about the awkward date I’m on. You know?”

“It’s not that awkward,” Harry says a bit defensively, but he knows it’s useless before the words are even out of his mouth.

Louis stares blankly at him, and Harry shrugs in return, face heating. “A little,” Louis says. “Especially since you’re not even speaking and I keep blabbering on like a nutter.”

“I like listening to you talk.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and goes to eat another chip. Harry catches the soft pink dance across his cheek. For some reason, just seeing that helps him to relax just a little.

Harry eats a couple of his own chips, has a bite of chicken, and then sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Louis flicks his eyes up. “Don’t be sorry. I get it. It’s a weird situation.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I wish it wasn’t.”

“Give it time.” Louis smiles, nudging Harry’s foot with his underneath the table.

Harry pushes some food around, grinning into his plate.

The dinner goes smoother after that. Harry feels calmer, though he’s sure he’s sweating no less, hands clammy and stomach in knots. He’s still not sure what all of this means for them, not sure that it will all work out the way Louis seemingly wants it too - and maybe the way Harry wants it to too.

Harry didn’t come up with any concrete plans for after dinner. He figured a movie was too cheesy, a walk was too cold, and he drew a blank as to what other date-worthy things there were to do in Donny. It might make him a bad date, but he figured he could leave it up to Louis to decide. It had nothing to do with hoping Louis would opt for going back to his place and shagging.

“Thanks for dinner,” Louis says, his hand finding Harry’s wrist and squeezing.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Louis slides his hand down the rest of the way, fingers intertwining with Harry’s. His hand is warm and dry against Harry’s sweaty one. He hopes it isn’t too noticeable.

The whole three blocks to the car, Harry can’t think about much else besides Louis’ warmth in his hand, on his side. He can’t stop thinking about them kissing last night, or the way Louis looks now. All happy and warm and soft, tucked inside his jacket and beanie. They’re both in their mid-twenties now but being around Louis makes Harry feel like it was his sixteenth birthday yesterday. Butterflies and raging hormones and the whole ordeal. Maybe Louis was right. Maybe it is a good thing. Maybe it could be like picking up where they left off - if it were that easy.

They pass an alley, and Harry doesn’t even think when he turns into it, pulling Louis by the hand. He pulls them a few feet in, far enough that the shadows obstruct the view of them from the street. Harry pushes him against the wall. The look of confusion remains on Louis’ face for a brief moment before it’s replaced by a smirk. When Harry leans in, Louis meets him halfway with a bruising kiss.

Harry grips onto his face, fingers slipping into soft hair as he frames Louis between his body and the brick wall. Louis’ gripping Harry’s ribs through his jacket, mouth open and welcoming, hot breaths pouring between. Harry takes it, takes every ounce of passion and heat dwelling inside of him and presses it all into Louis’ lips. They’re in a back alley, dumpster to their left and a busy street to their right outside of the shadows, but Harry swears he could fuck him here and still have it be beautiful.

He’s hard already, and he can feel Louis against his thigh when he presses close. He could. He so could. He doesn’t know how he can have Louis right here but not have his skin. Harry kisses across Louis’ jaw, sucking at the tender area below his ear. He reaches between them, cupping Louis through his trousers. “Wanna fuck you,” Harry says huskily against his ear.

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Louis whines, hips moving into his touch just slightly. “Not here.”

“But somewhere?” Harry grins into his skin.

“No,” Louis says, but his voice lacks conviction. He taps on Harry’s chin to brush their lips together, softer this time. “It’s for a reason, I swear,” he murmurs.

Harry nods, exchanging a few more kisses, less passion and needy tongues than before, though Harry can still feel it burning inside his gut.

They straighten each other out before joining the world on the main road, Louis’ grip on his hand tighter than before. As the near the car, Louis leans into his side and presses his face into his shoulder, lips pecking through the thick layers. Harry returns by kissing the top of his head as they come to a stop next to the car. Louis smiles at him as Harry unlocks the passenger side first. “Wow, you really are pulling all the moves tonight.”

Harry bows, and winks. He’s still hard inside his trousers, and if the bulge in Louis’ are anything to go by, so is he.

The car ride is silent, but the tension is thick, neither of them able to remain still in their seats. Harry turns up the radio in hopes that will help to distract them. Neither of them bring up going anywhere else, which is fine by Harry, seeing as all he can think of doing is going home and having a long wank session followed by a cold shower.

Once they reach Louis’ flat, Harry is expecting a goodbye kiss, maybe three, but no more. Louis kisses him five times though, and just before getting out he turns to look at Harry, as if on second thought. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

Harry blinks, smile creeping across his lips.

“I mean tea,” Louis says firmly. “It isn’t code for sex.”

“I wouldn’t think such a thing.”

Louis rolls his eyes, getting out of the car. Harry turns off the ignition, and scrambles out after him.

They remove their shoes and coats at the door, and Harry tries not to stare at Louis’ figure. His clothes are tight, fitted along the curve of his back and hips and arse. The thing is, Harry can close his eyes and have a pretty clear vision of his nineteen year-old naked body, even after all of these years, but Harry wants a refresh. He wants to see the more clearly defined lines in his muscles, the unexplored areas. He wants the scruff and hair and the change in his eyes along with it. Louis isn’t a boy anymore, he’s a man, and goddamnit, Harry wants him. He’s nearly choking with how badly he wants it, and it’s not fair. Louis may have good intentions, but he’s just being plain cruel.

Harry stays back, leaning against the opposite counter as Louis fills the kettle. Louis’ talking about something - a woman from work? A lad from the football team? Harry has no idea. He imagines he looks a bit like a predator, leering at Louis while he reaches into the cupboard to pull out mugs. Louis turns to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“What?” Harry asks through a dry throat.

“I asked what kind of tea you want.”

“Bloody hell, Lou,” he says, groaning.

“What?”

“You’re still hard.”

“Shut up,” he says, tugging on his t-shirt as if that will hide it. “So are you.” He makes a flippant motion towards Harry’s crotch as if trying to make a point that might’ve somehow been lost on Harry. Like Harry didn’t realize his erection’s been maintained for the past twenty minutes just by merely looking at Louis’ body and movements, like he’s some horny teenager.

Harry takes two large strides towards Louis, reconnecting their lips. He doesn’t care. The least he can do is kiss him until he’s kicked out.

Louis’ hesitant at first, hands at his side and mouth closed, but it’s no more than a few mere moments before he kisses him back. Harry can feel him become pliant underneath his hands. They keep kissing until Louis’ hands are in his hair, Harry’s hands against his bare stomach, hips moving together against the counter. Harry’s so lost in the small sounds that Louis is making, somehow making him even harder, that it takes him awhile to clue into the whistling of the kettle. He considers ignoring it completely before realizing it overpowers Louis. He moves away long enough to all but dash to the oven and back, flicking off the switch, as if taking too long will cause Louis to stop them.

When their lips meet again it’s bruising, and he’s sure Louis may end up with a mark from where the counter is digging into his back. Harry pushes his shirt up, and Louis allows it to bunch at his armpits. He pulls his mouth away long enough to say, “Harry, you know we shouldn’t…” before he’s back to kissing him just as hungrily. Harry would maybe believe him if his tongue wasn’t fucking into his mouth with the same intensity as his grinding hips.

“I know,” Harry murmurs into his mouth.

“We’re not being very responsible.”

“Not at all.” Harry bites onto his neck, just to the right of his adam’s apple. “Tell me when you want to stop.”

“Okay,” Louis says breathlessly.

Louis’ shirt is still up past his middle, and Harry tugs at it, in an attempt to get Louis to take the hint. He does, and Harry’s not sure that he’s all that surprised when Louis doesn’t stop him, instead creating space between them as he raises his arms, allowing Harry to pull it off the rest of the way.

When their mouths come back together, Louis shirt discarded on the floor, it tastes like victory.

“You too, you too.” Louis pushes Harry’s blazer off his shoulders, and it’s a fumble of hands as they bump around in attempt to get both that and his shirt off. Louis actually groans when their bare chests come into contact, pawing at Harry’s ribs. Harry will be damned if they stop now that he’s been reintroduced to the sensation.

Harry’s hands roam over Louis’ chest, exploring, before he begins to kiss down his neck and past his collarbone. He gets as a far as a nipple before the strain in his back is too much, and he drops down, knees against the linoleum. He kisses the warm skin below Louis’ belly button, thin trail of hair brushing against his chin. His cock jolts in his trousers, hand on Louis’ belt.

“Shit, Harry. What - ”

Harry’s hand remains hooked onto the leather as he leans back far enough to meet Louis’ eyes. “If you want to stop now we can. I’ll get up, put my clothes back on and leave. We can wait. But the way I see it is that we’ve been doing this foreplay thing for six years now, and I'd really like to suck your cock.”

“Fuck,” Louis whines, pressing a hand between his eyes.

“I’ve regretted not doing it when I had the chance,” Harry says, feathering kisses along the strip of skin that meets his jeans. “I never got to see how you tasted, or how your cock felt inside my mouth.”  

“God, Harry. Goddamnit, you’re evil.” He grips onto the curve of Harry’s shoulders, fingers digging deep. “Okay, okay, yes.”

“Yes?” Harry asks, pressing his finger along Louis’ zipper.

“Fuck. Yes, Harry. I want your mouth on me.”

Harry grins, and undoes Louis’ belt, pulling his trousers and underwear down in one sweeping motion. Harry presses his nose along the coarse hair, and then down towards his balls where he takes a tentative, teasing lick. Louis’ already squirming uncontrollably, one hand gripping Harry’s shoulder and the other pressed into his eye socket. Harry mouths along his cock, just barely coming into contact as he looks up at Louis - swollen lips, flushed cheeks, fluttering eyelashes. He’s breathtaking, and Harry’s skin flares with desire. He’s never wanted anything more; nothing can compete.  

He licks the tip first, feeling the muscles in Louis’ thighs clench underneath his touch. Harry lets some precome linger on his tongue, tasting it. Sweet, he’d like to think. “Tastes just as good as I thought it would.”

“Jesus,” he curses, “who _are_ you?”

Harry grins, and begins to take him in, inch by inch, tongue pressed along the underside. Harry usually isn’t the type to brag, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s done this enough to know exactly where to flick his tongue, the exact pressure, where to put his hands, where to get the most reaction. And he loves it. He’s always loved it, get’s hot and bothered knowing he’s pleasuring someone so intensely with only his mouth. He loves the taste, loves the thick feeling against his tongue. But, Louis - God, Louis brings it to a whole new level that he never even knew existed.

Harry reaches to cup Louis’ balls, fingers against the sensitive skin, causing an involuntary buck of Louis’ hips along with a slew of curses. Harry doesn’t mind - he has very little gag reflex left, which is what he assumes Louis is alluding to when he says, “Goddamn hell, Harry. What even are you - “

Harry grins around his cock, hand moving from his balls to around back, up and over the curve of his ass and peeking into his cheeks. He pulls his mouth off with a pop, a string of saliva and cum running down his chin. He drags his nose over Louis’ pubic hair, breathing in, before kissing his jutted hipbone. He pushes his finger further until he’s just circling his hole, mumbling hotly against his skin, “Can I fuck you?”

“Yes. God, yes,” Louis says without hesitation.

Harry picks himself up from his knees, lips trailing over Louis’ bare chest. He nudges their noses together, eyes connecting with Louis’, sharing heavy breaths. Louis runs his hands over Harry’s neck and cheek, saying, “Christ, Harry, are you trying to kill me?”

Harry grins, and kisses him. Louis flicks his tongue inside his mouth, tasting himself. Harry gives a throaty groan as Louis reaches for his trousers, working on the button. “We should - We should go to my room.”

Harry nods enthusiastically against his mouth. “Yes, yes, I like that idea.”

They stumble down the hallway, not breaking as Louis fumbles to push Harry’s tight jeans down his hips, tongues battling together in heat. They bump into a few sharp-edged items along the way, though Harry’s too caught up in Louis to feel it. He’s sure there will be plenty of marks tomorrow. It’s not until they reach the foot of the bed that they stop long enough to collectively pull Harry’s trousers off the rest of the way.

They fall into the mattress in a tangle of limbs and skin and wet kisses, gasping as they slide against each other. Harry pins Louis against the comforter, biting his shoulder as he ruts into him. Louis moans, and pushes his hand between their bodies to grab a hold of Harry, thumb sliding against his tip. Harry supports himself on one elbow, kissing Louis languidly as he fists his cock. Harry can barely think, Louis’ fingers hot and sinful against his skin. God, it’s been so long, and Louis’ so mind-numbingly beautiful and he’s oozing sex that Harry absolutely cannot wait any longer. “Fuck, Lou - I can’t - I need to be inside you, right now. Where is your stuff?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before peeling his body off Louis’, crawling across the mattress towards the nightstand. He digs inside, cock throbbing at the sound of Louis’ heavy pants behind him. Harry needs to focus. He needs to get the lube and the condom and get Louis open and ready, and only then can he think about fucking him until he comes undone.

Louis’ already spreading his legs before Harry can ask, hooking one onto Harry’s hip as he situates himself between. Harry can’t even process how good he looks spread out beneath him, chin tilted up, hair a mess and chest heaving. Harry bends down to kiss him messily while his hand fumbles to open the bottle of lube. Louis reaches for his cock again, spreading precome over the head. “Lou, you can’t - I need to - I can’t concentrate if you’re doing that.”

Louis laughs, cheeks dimpled and pupils blown. Harry lays one last kiss onto his mouth before coating his fingers in lube and sliding down Louis’ chest. He gives no warning as he ducks below Louis’ belly button, licking along his length as he reaches between his spread legs to push a finger through. Louis whines, hips bucking. “God, Harry, please.”

Harry doesn’t know if he means, _please fuck me_ , or, _please stop wrecking me_. Either way, Harry can’t help it - Louis tastes fucking good.

He sucks on his tip as he crooks a finger past the ring of muscle. He works him open a bit before transferring his mouth to Louis’ thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin. “God, you’re tight,” he says. “I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long, Lou.” He looks up to where Louis is staring at the ceiling, biting onto his knuckles. “Have you thought about this too? About me fucking you?” he asks as he adds a second finger.

Louis’ adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yes,” he says, nodding profusely. “Fuck, yeah, I have.”

“Have you touched yourself thinking about this? Of me working you open with my fingers, or my tongue? What about fucking me, Louis? Have you touched yourself thinking about that?”

“Yes,” he croaks as Harry wiggles his fingers around, stretching out the tight ring of muscle.

“Have you done this, Louis? Have you fingered yourself thinking about me?”

Louis gives way to a moan as Harry pushes in deep, muscles clenching around his fingers as he convulses. “Oh god, Harry. Yeah. Yeah, I have”

Harry sucks on his pelvic bone as he adds another digit, his own cock throbbing. “How often?”

“A lot,” he says. “All the time. Since I was a teenager.”

“Fuck.” Harry groans. He moves his mouth back to Louis’ cock as he fucks into him with his fingers, pushing against his prostate.

“Harry, God. I can’t - ” Louis reaches down to squeeze his shoulder. “Please, Harry. I need you to - please, okay. I’m ready, please just fuck me already.”

Harry doesn’t need any more convincing as he removes his fingers, sliding up Louis’ body. He grabs the condom, not wasting any time as he rips the packet open and reaches between them to roll it onto himself. Louis grabs the lube while he does, pouring it onto his hands. Harry meets him in a kiss, hands threaded through his hair as Louis reaches down to rub it onto him. Harry breaks apart to press his nose against Louis’ cheek, breathing him in as he finishes up. Harry flicks his eyes over his complexion, close enough to see his pores and tiny whiskers, the curve of his nose and cheekbones. Harry thinks he’s bloody perfect.

Harry grabs onto Louis’ hips, pulling him closer as he situates himself between his legs again, Louis thighs bracketing his hips. Louis keeps his eyes on Harry, wide and sex-crazed, as Harry grabs ahold of his cock and guides himself into Louis, pressing his tip against his hole. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Louis nods, reaching up to touch Harry’s neck, thumb against his cheek. It’s so tender that Harry nearly loses his nerve as he pushes in, muscle extremely tight and nearly blinding around his cock.

“Oh god,” Louis groans, hand dropping to grip at Harry’s shoulder instead, fingers digging into skin.

Blood rushes to Harry’s ears, and suddenly it’s all Louis, everywhere, all over, and Harry can’t breathe. He’s not even all the way in, but he feels so good already that he’s nearly paralyzed. He snaps out of it when Louis pulls him down, knocking their mouths together in haste. “Come on,” he manages through laboured breathing, heel digging into Harry’s lower back. “Fuck, _please_ , Harry. Need you to fuck me.”

Harry regains composure, kissing Louis hungrily as he pushes into him all the way. Harry’s mind is spinning, Louis hot and tight and wonderful around him. He resists the urge to reach between them, to touch where he’s buried deep inside of him, just to make sure. Just to be certain that this is happening.

Harry begins to move after that, hips jerking sporadically into Louis. His whole body feels on fire, muscles shaking against Louis as they attempt messy kisses through their heavy breathing. Harry’s stomach is trembling already, and he’s barely been inside of him for over a minute. This is better than Harry even imagined it to be - and he’s imagined it _a lot_. That’s six years worth of fantasies, after all.

“Fuck, Haz. You feel so good,” Louis says, head dropping against the mattress. Harry follows, needing his mouth, and the slight change of angle causes him to push in deeper. Louis’ legs move further up his sides, and Harry grabs ahold of his hips for better guidance. When he hits that spot within him, Louis all but comes undone, moaning filthily into the air. The sound alone causes an intense reaction in Harry as he begins to rock into him harder and deeper.

Louis wraps both arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him close until their noses bump. They share breaths, mouths knocking together every few thrusts. Their chests are rubbing, Lock’s cock pressed between their stomachs. Harry’s had a lot of sex, but he’s positive that none even come close to this. He doesn’t even know what it is, couldn’t put it into proper thoughts, let alone words. He’s tried. God, has he tried. Just like he’s tried to match it, but to no avail. It’s something electrifying, something that pricks up beneath his skin whenever Louis’ near, something that’s multiplied and then magnified when they’re connected like this. He had wondered if maybe it had been exaggerated after all this time, that his memory of them together was better than reality. A first time thing, a loss of his virginity to someone that mattered. But he now sees that it wasn’t an exaggeration in the slightest. It’s even better than he remembered.The thought burns beneath his skin, clenching his gut and dizzying his brain. He’s too lost within Louis, within the sensation of finally being with him again, that he can’t think of what that all means.  

Harry reaches between them, taking Louis in his hand. He’s leaking, Harry can feel it on his fingers and stomach, mixed in with their sweat. They’ve found a steady rhythm now, Louis hips moving to meet his thrusts. His eyes are pressed shut, and Harry sweeps his eyes across his face. His strokes his free hand over Louis’ cheek, and when he opens his eyes to meet Harry’s, he leans in to kiss him slow and languid, a contrast to their rough rhythm.

“Oh god, Harry. I don’t know - fuck.” Louis moans, back arching as his muscles contract around Harry. “God, you feel so amazing. I don’t know how much longer - ”

Harry picks up his pace, thrusting in hard and deep enough that the sound of skin slapping is distinct. His wrist picks up speed, fisting Louis’ cock until he’s an incoherent mess underneath him, all moans and curses and heavy gasps. Between the sights, sounds and sensations, Harry can very clearly feel the finish pooling inside his gut like fire. “Louis, _fuck_. You’re so fucking - ”

“Oh god, oh god, keep going,” Louis says, nails scratching along Harry’s back, hard enough to leave marks. “So close. So fucking close, oh shit.”

Louis pulls him down, mouths crashing together just moments before he lets out a guttural moan, tensing up and convulsing beneath Harry as he comes. Harry fucks him through it, barely able to stand it as Louis’ muscles clamp tightly around him, making it hard for him to think about how to move, let alone actually do it. It feels so good though, so fucking amazing and perfect and hot that he can’t stop. He just bucks his hips without rhythm, pleasure firing all the way up his spine. “Jesus, fuck. Louis. God, you feel so - God, you’re fucking perfect.” His hand remains trapped between them, covered in Louis’ cum and sweat. He’s too focused on every thrust, his last few before he goes over the edge. He sees black, red, and white as he lets go deep inside of him, Louis’ hand rubbing his back brainlessly. Even the bones inside of him feel like they’re shaking and coming apart. His vision comes back slowly, blurry and out of focus, clouded with stars.

“Shit. Oh, _fuck_.” Harry collapses onto Louis, lips immediately searching for his. Louis massages the back of Harry’s neck while they breath into each other’s mouths, too wrecked to do much else. Harry stays boneless on top of him as he waits for sensation to return to his muscles, to his brain. Except for the hand on Harry’s neck, Louis remains just as still, their chests pounding unceremoniously against each other.

Harry still feels a little lost inside him.

Louis is the first to regain proper brain function as he laughs incredulously into Harry’s hair, saying, “Oh my god. What just happened?”

Harry doesn’t answer, doesn’t know how to, so instead he presses a kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth and maneuvers himself to pull out. Louis whines as he does, grinning dopily up at Harry while he pulls the condom off and ties it up. He goes to stand up, but Louis reaches out, hand gripping around his wrist, tugging him back. “Stay,” he says. “Just throw it on the ground for now.”

“I was going to get a cloth.”

“Don’t.” He tugs again, and this time Harry complies, falling down next to him. Louis curls into his side, the curves of their bodies slitted together just right. He lays wet kisses along Harry’s shoulder, hand dancing across his belly. They’re sticky and sweaty, but Harry can’t find it in him to care. He stares at the ceiling, trying to form even one proper thought in his mind. He fails horribly.

“That was - yeah, wow,” Louis says after a few minutes pass. He rolls onto his stomach, hooking his chin onto Harry’s chest and stares up at him with piercing blue eyes.

Harry pushes Louis’ damp hair out his face, running his fingers through the tangles. “Wow,” he agrees.

“You’re evil, Styles,” he says. He’s laughing though, so Harry doesn’t take it too seriously. “Know how to get me all hot and bothered so I can’t say no even if I wanted to.”

“Are you upset? I didn’t - ”

“No. God, no,” Louis says quickly. “I thank you actually. Thank you for not letting that go missed for even a day longer. I can’t even remember why I thought waiting was a good idea.”

“Something about not wanting to rush it.”

Louis laughs and says, “You were right, about the painfully long foreplay. I think we’ve made it quite clear that we’re incapable of rushing anything.”

“I agree,” Harry says, fingers still in Louis’ hair. He pushes a strand behind his ear, and Louis smiles, shimmying up Harry’s chest to connect their lips.

“You said I was perfect, you know.” Louis grins cheekily into his mouth.

Harry snorts disbelievingly. “I would never say such a thing.”

Louis pokes him in the rib, squishing his face together. “Lies. You think I’m wonderful and perfect and funny and sexy. Admit it.”

“Nope,” Harry says, pressing his lips together in defiance.

Louis smooths a curl down with his thumb, nudging his nose against Harry’s. “What if I told you I thought you were pretty great?” he says softly, breath hot against his lip.

“Well, I already know that.”

“You’re a tosser,” Louis says, pulling back to flick his nose. He moves to roll off Harry completely, pouting in full dramatics. He doesn’t get very far before Harry’s arms are circling around his waist, flipping them over until Louis’ is pinned underneath.

Louis frowns at him, maintaining a straight face until Harry bends down, attempting to blow a raspberry on to his cheek. He fails, mostly slobbering over Louis instead, but it makes him laugh, loud and rich, the sound sinking into Harry’s bones.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I have a glob of your cum on my stomach, you can handle my spit.”

Louis sticks out his tongue, and Harry retaliates by kissing him into the mattress. Louis whines at the back of his throat, but he falls warm and pliant, lips massaging against his with ease. Harry can taste his smile.

He’s overwhelmed by every part of Louis - how he tastes, smells, feels, looks. His skin, his ass, his laugh, his eyes, his feet and voice and jokes and knees. Harry is so done for.

Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, arching his back to buck their hips together. Harry gasps, surprised by the contact, and Louis returns with a cheeky grin. “I think it’s my turn to fuck you now, yeah?”

Harry shakes his head, grinning wildly.

“Hey, just because you managed to pull your tricks on me and have me all incoherent and brainless, doesn’t mean you can just run around being top all the time. It’s kind of my thing, you know?”

“Oh, I’m not arguing. I quite like you fucking me,” Harry runs his finger across Louis’ shoulder, and down across his chest. “I was just thinking, I mean, you’re twenty-six. An old man now. You can’t possibly recuperate that quickly.” He smiles, batting his eyelashes in innocence.

“I absolutely despise you.”  

“No,” Harry says, knocking his nose against his cheek, “you don’t.” Harry reaches between them and grabs ahold of Louis, already half-hard. “Wow, would you look at that,” he says, teasingly, “it must be because I’m so fit.”

Louis knocks him in the shoulder, pushing Harry off of him as he flips them back over. He scrambles on top of Harry, bracketing his hips, and pins his wrists down against the mattress. Louis bends down, mumbling “twat” directly into his mouth. Harry grins.

Despite the fact that Louis is supposed to hate him, he kisses him long and hard before moving down his chest, dragging his mouth down past his abdomen. Harry thinks he mumbles ‘I’ll show you’ into his pelvic bone. He’s not entirely sure what giving him head will prove regarding his old age, but Harry isn’t about to raise that question.

He begins to inexplicably laugh instead, hands splayed over his eyes. Louis follows soon after, hot breath over his hip. He pokes Harry in the side, which only causes him to laugh harder. “I’m trying to suck your dick, stop laughing,” he says between his own giggles. Harry doesn’t relent, so Louis retaliates by squeezing both of his sides, settling on full-blown tickling.

Harry actually squeals, curling into his side to protect himself from Louis’ further attacks. “Lou- _is_ ,” he whines between laughter.

Louis grins into his inner thigh, going in for a nibble. “Harr- _eh_.”

Harry looks down to meet his gaze, and Louis returns with a lopsided grin. Harry looks at his wild hair and flushed cheeks, and smiles back, feeling light.

He is so, so done for.


	11. ix.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **pairing:** louis tomlinson/harry styles

_ix. louis_

Louis realizes how old he is when he decides to throw a dinner party on New Year’s Eve. He realizes how old his friends are when they accept the invitation with no more than a bat of an eyelash and ask if he prefers red or white wine. To balance it out, he stocks up on mixers for cocktails, and allows Harry to make the playlist.

Since his cooking skills very much remain mediocre, Harry helps him prepare the majority of it. Even though it will only be their closest mates, Harry goes all out, making snacks, appetizers, five different main dishes and two desserts. Louis’ kitchen is a disaster for two days straight, no matter how often he breaks from cutting and stirring to follow Harry with a rag or dustpan. They get distracted often - Louis enamored by the domesticity of it all; Harry with flour in his hair, tongue sticking out in concentration, beads of sweat collecting on his temple. Louis can hardly control himself when he smacks his behind with the wooden spoon or licks sauce from his mouth. He _certainly_ can’t contain himself when he fucks Harry over the counter, incidentally burning the dinner rolls.

Louis’ taking them out of the oven, trousers still undone, when Zayn and Perrie buzz from downstairs. As soon as the door opens, Zayn wrinkles his nose, and says, “Something’s burning.” He looks long and hard between the two of them, taking in their dishevelled appearances. It’s then that Louis notices the mismatched buttons on Harry’s shirt. “You burnt our dinner because you two were too busy shagging.”

“It was only the dinner rolls,” Harry says defensively. “Some of them were still salvageable.”

“Please don’t tell me you did it in the kitchen.”

Louis very purposely ignores him, going over to Perrie to take the wine bottle from her hands. She mouths ‘hello’ and Louis grins.

Harry says, “It wasn’t near the food.”

“Christ, do you two ever stop?”

“Occasionally,” Louis supplies. “Like when we need to eat and work and go to loo and such.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, muttering ‘buggers’ underneath his breath.

Once Zayn and Perrie remove their outerwear, all four of them move into the kitchen, waiting as Louis takes out glasses and pours them each some wine. When he hands Perrie her glass, Louis’ attention is diverted to the large and shiny matter reflecting off her finger. “What the hell is that?” he demands.  

She switches the glass to her ringless hand to hold out the one in question, wiggling her fingers to show off the culprit. “Oh, this little thing?” she asks in faux modesty.

Louis grabs ahold of her hand, yanking her in to get a better look with little delicacy. Harry is instantly at his side, gaping along with him. When Louis glances up at Zayn incredulously, he’s smirking.

“You bugger, you’re one of those absolute cheesy types that proposes on New Year’s!”

“It was Christmas Eve actually,” Perrie chimes in, coming to Zayn’s defense.

“That’s even worse!” Louis says, all the while moving her hand back and forth, light catching the rock and sparkling. It’s beautiful. Way nicer than what he thought would be affordable on a teaching salary. “I talked to you yesterday!”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun this way. I get to see your face.”

Louis knew it was coming, of course. If anything, he was surprised it didn’t come sooner, but this is certainly not how he expected to find out that his best mate was getting married. He thought that maybe they’d have one of those big heartfelt moments where Zayn would be a little nervous, certain but looking for confirmation, and Louis would be supportive, telling him, “Of course you have to propose, mate,” and they’d hug and maybe they’d shed a few tears and then laugh about it later when Louis went to help him pick out a ring. He knows Zayn isn’t the sentimental type, but at the very least he could’ve at least _told_ him before the matter. Louis doesn’t think that’s asking for too much.

Harry pulls Perrie into a hug first, grinning from ear to ear and all but squealing. “Congratulations! This is so exciting! When is the wedding?”

“Not sure yet. Probably the summer,” she says.

Once Harry finally lets go, Louis pushes aside his offense long enough to pull her in for a hug of his own. Harry’s just pulling away from Zayn when Louis comes up and punches him in the shoulder.

Zayn glares, rubbing his shoulder. “Ow, what’s that for?”

“For being a shite best mate. It’s like, in my job description to be there to help you pick out the ring. Let alone at least know you’re planning on it!”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’m a big boy, Louis.”

Louis pouts, and considers pressing further before sighing and going in for a hug. It’s not everyday his best mate comes over engaged, after all, but it’s hardly the end of it. Zayn knows Louis’ well enough to know he’s never let off the hook that easily. “Congratulations, you bastard.”

“Always making me feel so loved.”

“You know it.” When Louis pulls back, he meets Zayn with a smirk. “Well, don’t think I’ll be telling you before I propose.”

“Why? Planning on proposing?” Zayn teases, eyebrow raised.

“No. But, maybe. I wouldn’t tell you.”

Zayn laughs, rolling his eyes. When Louis turns to shoot Harry a grin, he’s too busy staring into his glass of water to notice.

Liam and his girlfriend, Brittany are the next to show, and as usual, his eyes are first drawn to the bump protruding from underneath her blouse. It’s only been a couple months since Louis’ seen her last but it appears even larger now. It’s shocking to him as it is the rest of them to know that come three months from now, Liam will be a father. He’s been twenty-seven for seven whole days now, and the thought doesn’t come easier. He’s three years from being thirty, and one of his best mates will be a husband while the other a dad, and Louis’ can’t even decide which grocery store he wants to shop at.

During dinner, Harry teams with Brittany to grill Perrie on wedding details while Louis chats with Niall’s new girlfriend, Emily. Halfway through the meal, Louis reaches underneath the table to rest a hand on Harry’s thigh, squeezing lightly. He can sense Harry glance at him, but he doesn’t turn from his conversation with Emily to meet it. He drums his fingers along the denim of his jeans instead, appreciating the warmth. After a few moments, Harry traps it with his own large hand, entangling their fingers together.

When his conversation breaks, he turns towards Harry, offering a warm smile. Harry’s still staring at him with this intense, unreadable expression that Louis frequently finds himself subjected to. He always feels a little nervous underneath it, uncertain whether to look away in embarrassment or kiss it off his face. Louis wishes he could hear what goes on in his mind when he looks at him like that, because Harry certainly isn’t sharing. Louis wrinkles his nose at him, and Harry snaps out of it a second later, meeting his smile and squeezing his fingers.

After dinner they settle on boardgames, which is so painfully adult that Louis nearly chokes on it. He counteracts it by getting everyone drunk off deceivingly strong cocktails - everyone but Brittany and Harry, of course, who stick to juice. At one point, Louis taunts Harry by asking if he’d like a straw, and Harry responds by shoving him in the shoulder and saying, “Shut it, Tomlinson. It takes a real man to drink apple juice on New Year’s.”

By eleven o’clock, Louis is five cocktails in and is going over his latest football match with Niall when he realizes he lost Harry. In all likelihood, it’s probably only been a total of ten minutes since last seeing him, but it’s New Year’s and he’s drunk, and well, he just really likes to be around him in a way that may be a little unhealthy.

He finds Harry in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and texting. Louis crowds into his space and presses close, trapping Harry’s phone between their bodies. He nudges his face against his ear, feathering kisses along his jawline. “Who’re you texting? A secret girlfriend?”

“You caught me.” Harry smirks against his mouth.

“Rude, Harry. Think of the children,” Louis says, and keeps on kissing him.

Harry laughs. “Gemma says Happy New Year.”

“Oh, right, it’s almost New Year’s,” Louis says reflectively. He circles his arms around Harry’s neck, trying to regain focus as he blinks through the mix of vodka and wine.

“Is it now?” Harry pockets his phone, using both hands to grip at Louis’ waist, thumb against his hipbone.

“Are you finally going to be my New Year’s kiss?”

“Maybe.” Harry shrugs. “If I can’t find anyone better.”

Louis rolls his eyes, pinching the skin on Harry’s neck. “Impossible.”

Harry grins, yanking him forward by the hips until their chests are bumping against each other. He hovers just over Louis’ lips as he says, “Probably.”

Louis leans in the rest of the way, grinning into the kiss. He had figured as much, but these past two months have only confirmed that kissing Harry can never and will never get old. He’d kiss him all the time if he could. It’s certainly not for lack of trying anyway, which has put them in more than a few awkward situations - at grocery stores, stoplights, football field, restaurants. Initially, Louis factored in their constant need of touching down to making up for lost time. There was a lot of years to make up for, a lot of fantasies to fulfill, but instead of lessening over time the need only became more intense. Louis’ twenty-seven, whatever happened to the supposed dwindling sex drive? He doesn’t recall being this horny even at twenty.

“How long after the new year is it acceptable for us to kick people out so we can shag? Ten minutes after midnight okay?” Harry asks. Louis’ not entirely sure that he’s only teasing. Louis may be horny, but Harry is insatiable.

“We already fucked by their food, we should probably wait until one, at the very least.”

“I guess.” Harry sighs, fiddling with Louis’ nipple over his t-shirt thoughtlessly, casual, like he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. If there’s anything Louis’ come to learn over these past two months besides Harry being a near sex fiend, is that he’s pure evil, taking every opportunity to rile Louis up until breathing even seems a struggle. It only takes a few touches and whispered words for Louis to become a pile of incoherent goo underneath his fingertips. He wears Louis out sometimes.

Five minutes before midnight, everyone gathers around the telly in Louis’ small living room, flutes of champagne in hand. Even Harry has one, much to Louis’ badgering which once again, earned him an eye roll and another punch to his arm.

“Well mates, I’m glad we made it yet another year,” Liam says, raising his flute in toast. “And with some additions.” He nods towards Emily while resting a hand on Brittany’s bump.

They cheers to that before Niall motions towards Louis and Harry, adding, ”And to these two for finally getting their shite together.”

Everyone laughs, nodding enthusiastically - even Emily, causing Louis to wonder how much Niall has told her of their history of pathetic pining. Harry ducks his head, laughing to himself, cheeks sprinkling pink. Louis tightens his grip on his waist, and shrugs his shoulders like, _what can I say?_

“Here’s to finally getting that New Year’s kiss.” Niall winks, raising his glass once more. “And to many more, lads. I’m happy for you two.”

Harry and Louis exchange glances before breaking out into laughter. “Ah,” Louis says, “we might have already had one.”

“Year eleven. In a plastic tube,” Harry elaborates.

Louis nods, grinning from ear to ear as he looks at Harry. “Yeah, all very romantic.”

“And you get cross with me for not telling you when I propose,” Zayn says dryly.

“Yeah because kissing as youths in a park is the same thing as proposing.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, and Louis retaliates further by sticking out his tongue.

“Oi, thirty seconds to New Year’s!” Niall interrupts, motioning towards the telly where the countdown has started.

They’re not even at fifteen seconds before Louis loses his patience, taps Harry’s chin with his finger and dives in for a kiss. Perrie yells at him for cheating, but they ignore her, Louis’ grip tightening around Harry’s waist as he pulls him in even closer. Harry laughs into his mouth while everyone erupts into cheers and _Happy New Year’s._

They break apart just as everyone else is finishing their marginally more modest kisses, and they all raise their glasses, clinking them together before taking their first sip of the new year. Louis gives himself a moment, taking it all in. His very best mates are all around him, Harry is warm against his side, skin buzzing, and he may be drunk, but he’s not sure he’s ever felt happier.

Fortunately for them, the upside of having old friends is that they start to trickle out at one without even any hinting on their part, starting with Liam and Brittany. By two, they’re already naked and sweaty and tangled in Louis’ sheets, Harry pressed beneath him.

“Happy 2019, Haz,” Louis says into his mouth, trapping his hands against the mattress.

“Happy 2019, Boo,” he repeats through heated kisses.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Australia, Canada, The Phillipines, Brazil, Madagascar. Just to name a few.”

Harry laughs, entire body arching into him. “Touche.”

Louis gazes down at him, his flushed cheeks, his untamed curls mixed into the sheets. Sometimes Louis looks at him and can hardly believe his luck. Harry’s beautiful, breathtakingly so, and everyone knows it. Louis nearly goes crazy every time they’re out together, the number of people openly ogling after him astonishing. Louis hates the way it makes him, all possessive and clingy, when Harry doesn’t seem to notice at all. He feels like a child, circling around Harry like he needs to constantly claim what’s his, but the worst part is - Louis doesn’t even know _if_ it’s his.

Louis’ tried to dig a few times. He tried to get something out of Harry, _anything_ , thoughts, feelings, wants. Harry always managed to get out of it though, and so skillfully, that Louis didn’t realize until way after the fact, usually when he was sweaty and boneless against the sheets - or the couch, or the floor, or the table. He thinks they might be sort of, kind of boyfriends. Harry’s _always_ over at his flat, has his own toothbrush and clothes and shampoo. They have lots of a sex. They do couples things like go grocery shopping and eat out of takeout containers at one in the morning during Harry Potter marathons. Louis’ certainly not seeing anyone else, nor is it something he even _thinks_ about, and since Harry spends mostly all of his time not working with Louis’, he very much doubts he is either.

And then, there was that time a couple of weeks ago when Louis came home from work to dinner and the entire flat spotless, and he joked, saying, “Wow, my boyfriend is a total housewife.” Harry didn’t even bat an eyelash, so he _thinks_ that means they’re boyfriends.

Louis realizes he should just be an adult and ask, but there’s a very small part of him that is scared, terrified that he’s wasted the past seven years of his life for Harry to turn around and say he doesn’t feel the same way back. If that is the case, Louis realizes he’s digging himself in even deeper, making it even worse on himself, but he’s also not ready to let it go.There’s a possibility he may end up heartbroken, but it’s only been two months and he knows it has to be worth it. There’s no doubt he’s completely, embarrassingly, mind-numbingly in love with Harry. He can’t lose him again, and the last things he wants to do is push him until he flees.

He doesn’t think it’s just him though. It can’t be. Not with the way Harry looks at him, or kisses him, or laughs with him, or holds him. After all, it has only been two months. Most couples are still getting to know each other at this stage, and they are, in a way, getting to know each other again. Of course they’re entirely different people from when they were teenagers, and if there was any initial worry whether they were no longer compatible, it was dashed and deleted. Harry still fit him like a piece of a puzzle - the teasing, the easy conversations that stretched well into the night, their adventures in finding the best grilled cheese sandwich in the city or who could find the best worst movie. He probably doesn’t need to mention how great their sex is, but, well. It’s pretty great.

Later on Louis will most likely blame it on the excess of alcohol, but with complete reckless abandonment, ignoring the pounding in his ribcage, he says, “I love you.”

Harry laughs, turning his head away. “You’re drunk.”

“No.”

Harry looks at him blankly, lips pressed together in a half-smirk. He wraps his hand around Louis’ neck, palm pressing into the back of his head as he pulls Louis’ mouth into his, kissing him long and hard. Louis remains tense, alcohol slowing any attempts at thoughts beyond what he believes was him telling Harry he loved him, and Harry laughing and ignoring him. Louis allows himself to be kissed for one minute before he’s rolling off Harry and onto his back. “I’m tired. It’s time for me to sleep.” He waits another thirty seconds, and after no response from Harry, he turns onto his side, back to him. “Night.”

He blinks at the wall, waiting for a, _of course I love you too_ , a hand rubbing circles onto his back. He waits, and waits, the back of his head burning with Harry’s gaze.

Just when Louis’ given up on him saying anything, alcohol weighing down on his eyelids, Harry finally speaks, sounding sad and exhausted through his whisper. “Goodnight, Lou,” is all he says.

Louis doesn’t move from his side of the bed.  

*

A week before Harry’s twenty-fifth birthday, Louis shows up at the end of his shift at the cafe. There’s only a girl on the floor, Harry nowhere to be seen, and Louis barely makes it to the counter before she’s grinning, eyebrows to her hairline. “You must be the long-awaited boyfriend.”

Louis blinks, doesn’t know what to say over _the boyfriend_ sounding inside his head. She looks back at him curiously, long enough that Louis manages to get out, “I’m Louis… yeah.”

“This is so exciting. It’s like meeting a celebrity, you know, with how much I’ve heard about you.” She shakes her head, and holds out her hand for Louis to shake, saying, “Sorry, I’m Tillie.”

“Um, yeah, Louis,” he says again, stupidly. Does Harry really call him his boyfriend? He’s nearly bursting. “How’d you know it was me?”

She blinks at him like it really _is_ a stupid question, then says, “Because he’s showed us pictures, of course. Plus, a picture of you two has been his phone background since he started working here.”

Louis nods, trying to appear cool and collected, though he’s sure the manic grin that creeps across his face two seconds later all but gives him away. Harry talks about him, and shows pictures of him, and calls him his _boyfriend_? Louis’ has more or less considered Harry his boyfriend since the first date, even casually mentioned it to a few people in passing, but despite it all he still wasn’t sure where Harry was. Louis hadn’t dared to speak those three words again since he was drunk and rejected on New Year’s, and he doesn’t know how adult gay men go about asking, _hey, will you be my boyfriend?_ Louis very nearly jumps over the counter and kisses this girl for clearing up what he was too cowardly to ask.

“Anyway, he’s just getting his things in the back. He should be out right away. Can I get you a drink?”

Louis politely declines, skin and brain and _toes_ buzzing enough on their own. Sure enough, Harry emerges a minute later with a scarf wrapped around his neck and a bag over his shoulder. His eyes land on Louis almost immediately, filled with confusion. He looks over at Tillie, then back to Louis, confusion morphing into what appears to be fear or dread. “What are you doing here?” he nearly hisses at Louis.

Louis smirks. “Can’t a boy pick his _boyfriend_ up from work?”

Harry narrows his eyes as he walks right past him, saying goodbye to Tillie over his shoulder as he stalks towards the door.

“Bye, very nice meeting you!” he calls to Tillie before scrambling after him, trying to push his grin down into a well-managed smile. He lasts until his hand comes into contact with Harry’s elbow, face cracking. “Hi. I came all the way down here on a cold winter day and I don’t even get a kiss hello?”

Harry stops, hand on the door, eyes searching over his in hesitation. For a moment, Louis thinks he might not at all, but then he’s leaning in and brushing the briefest of kisses against his mouth. “Hi.” He pushes the door open, letting in the cold January air. Louis moves close behind him, hand pressing into the small of his back.

“She said I was your boyfriend,” Louis says once they make it three steps down the sidewalk.

Harry pulls his scarf past his ears, and says, “So?”

“So…” He falters, then says, “So why did I have to hear it from her, and not you?”

“I didn’t think I had to.” Harry frowns, voice chopped with annoyance. “I thought it was pretty obvious. You didn’t exactly say anything either.”

“Yeah, but I did tell you I loved you which you completely ignored,” Louis says in one breath of air, cheeks instantly filled with heat.

Harry stops abruptly, holding onto Louis’ arm, causing the people passing by to swerve around them, shooting glares as they do. Harry’s initial annoyed expression has softened now, and Louis just blinks, heart racing uncontrollably. Louis hadn’t brought it up the next morning, nor was he planning on it. He kind of wanted to forget the whole painful and mortifying situation, pretend he was too drunk to remember. He certainly wasn’t planning on saying it just like _that_. “Lou,” he says softly, “of course I consider you my boyfriend. I really did think it was kind of just - a given. I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“Me neither,” Louis admits.

Harry reaches forward, anchoring Louis’ jaw with his cold hands. He bends down, kissing him properly this time. Louis feels so silly, on his tiptoes, kissing his boyfriend in the cold while people rush by them, bumping their elbows. Harry is his boyfriend. When did this happen? _How_ did this happen? He immediately wishes he could run and tell his twenty year-old self.

“Is it still kind of weird for you?” Louis asks before clarifying, “I mean in like, a good way?”

Harry nods. “Incredibly.”

Louis grabs onto his waist, pulling him closer until their hips bump. “You’re my _boyfriend_.”

Harry all but giggles, ducking his chin into his scarf. If they weren’t standing in the middle of the street, Louis would most definitely be licking his dimple right now. “I have been for awhile, but okay.”

Louis squeezes his waist and says, “You’re ruining this moment. Say it.”

“Say what?”

Louis stares at him pointedly.

Harry laughs more, hands dropping down to circle Louis’ wrists. “Oh my god, how old are you?”

Louis blinks.

“Okay, okay. Yes Louis, I am your boyfriend. You are my boyfriend. We are boyfriends. Now can we please start walking? In case you’ve forgotten I was living in Asia - ”

Louis surges forward, cutting him off with a bruising kiss. Harry manages to kiss him back while still laughing. Louis’ pretty sure someone mutters, “get off the fucking sidewalk,” but Louis kisses him a few more times before finally pulling away.

“You’re crazy.” Harry grins.

“Crazy for you,” Louis says, winking.

“Oh my god.” He begins to walk away, but he keeps a hand on Louis’ wrist, tugging him along. “It’s like I’m being courted by a twelve year-old.”

“I don’t need to court you,” Louis says matter-of-factly, “you’ve already been courted because I’m your - ”

“Boyfriend, right,” Harry finishes for him.

Louis grins, squeezing his fingers. He butts his head against Harry’s like a kitten and says, “Exactly.”

*

Louis’ exhausted when he gets home from class, books heavy in his backpack and weighing his shoulders down. It feels like there’s bricks inside, possibly a small child, and Louis has to fight to walk across the darkened apartment. He can barely see, there are no windows, but there’s smoke everywhere, thick in the air and soaking into his skin. He coughs, and when he tries to call out, nothing comes out, his voice trapped inside his esophagus. The room is bare, and a single door is directly across from him, slightly creaking open and closed. He heads towards it, backpack still holding him down, and he shields his eyes, smoke getting thicker. He can smell fire now, can see the flame from where he came in. The doorknob is hot, burning him on contact. He tries to push open the door, the fire getting closer, but there’s resistance. He pushes harder, smoke filling his lungs. He gets it open enough to slip in through the cracks, backpack catching on the doorframe, but he doesn’t take it off. Finally, he pulls himself through, just as the flames are nipping at his feet. He slams the door behind him, and he turns right into a pair of feet. There’s no smoke anymore, air clear as Louis looks up to see legs, a stomach, arms, a face. Pale skin, purple lips and William’s eyes that stare back at him, a thick black rope, covered in flames around his neck. Louis tries to run away, but he’s stuck to the floor now, backpack anchoring him. He tries to scream, to cry, but nothing comes out. He can see the fire flickering from underneath the door, and -

“Louis, love. Wake up. Lou.”

Louis’ eyes snap open, and he immediately sits up, gasping for breath. He glances around the room, disorientated, half expecting to find himself in his room in Oxford, but it’s Harry who’s at his side, hand rubbing circles into his back.

“Hey,” he whispers, kissing his shoulder, “It’s okay. It was just a dream.”

Louis curses under his breath, bringing his head down to rest against his knees, hand raking through his hair. His heart is still pounding, cheeks wet with tears, and he swears he can still taste smoke on his tongue.

“Babe, it’s okay. It’s okay.” The hand not rubbing circle into his back grabs ahold of his shin, squeezing lightly. “Just a dream.”

“When will they stop?” Louis asks, voice muffled into his knees.

“I don’t know, love. Try not to think about it, okay?”

Louis takes a deep breath, pulling his face up. He doesn’t look at Harry as he falls back against the mattress, head on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

Harry follows behind him, careful enough that Louis barely feels it until he’s hooked against his side, fingers gingerly stroking the hair at his temple. It’s the second time in a month that Louis has had that dream. Before that it had been awhile, nearly four months, long enough that Louis thought they were done for good, they were done tormenting him. Apparently that wasn’t the case, and Louis was beginning to think it never would be.

Harry kisses the tears off his cheek, hand moving down to stroke along his belly. “Are you okay?” he asks, so quiet it’s barely audible.

Louis takes a deep breath, and releases it through his mouth, nodding briefly.

Harry stays plastered to his side, hand still rubbing his stomach until he falls back asleep a few minutes later, hand limp and breathing heavily against his shoulder.

Louis doesn’t move, mind blank and eyes to the ceiling when pale light trickles in through the curtains. He glances down at Harry, streams of gold and pink across his face, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

*

“Rise and shine, princess,” Louis sings, legs over Harry’s hips and nose against his.

Harry eyes blink open, momentarily going cross-eyed as he attempts to focus on Louis’ features an inch from his own. He makes a gargled grunting sound, and turns to his side, feebly trying to escape Louis’ hold. “What time is it? Bloody five AM?”

“No, six thirty,” Louis says like it’s any better.

“Get away, mutant,” he full on whines, grabbing Louis’ abandoned pillow and covering his head with it. “It’s my day off.”

“You also have tomorrow off, and the day after.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes,” Louis says insistently, “I made sure of it.”

Harry doesn’t respond, dozing off again. Louis rips the pillow from his head, and kisses whatever open skin he can reach. “Time to get up, sunshine.”

“Why?” he cries out in annoyance. “What do you want from me?”

“I love when you’re grumpy in the morning. Especially on the mornings that I’m trying to give you your birthday surprise.”

Louis watches as one eye pops open, shifting until he’s facing Louis once again. “Go on. I suddenly feel much more awake.”

“It’s a _surprise_. You have to get up, get changed, eat breakfast and get in the car like a good boy.”

Harry groans, this time rolling all the way onto his stomach. Louis sits down on his arse, and may or may not grind his hips a little, bending down to lick along the shell of his ear. “Will you get up if I blow you?” he murmurs hotly against his ear.

Harry moves so quickly that he nearly knocks Louis over. Harry’s not the only one who can use his sexuality as a weapon.

An hour and one blowjob later, Harry is successfully in the passenger seat as they make their way down the M18, Donny faded in the distance. Harry has sunglasses on despite it being the middle of winter, thin rays of sun peaking through the clouds. Louis wonders where he managed to dig them up in his flat. He suspects they might even be his.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”

“Oh, you know,” Louis says airily, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while the other fiddles with the heat, “London.”

“Louis - _seriously?_ ”

Louis shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, why not?”

“ _Louis_.”

“What?” Louis says a bit defensively, glancing at Harry from the corner of his eye. “I thought it’d be fun. It’s your birthday.” Harry sighs, and Louis says, “but if you don’t want to… I can always turn back.”

Harry stares at him, eyebrows scrunched together. Louis checks the road, and when he turns back to Harry, the slightest of smirks has taken over his expression, eyes twinkling in amusement. When Louis flashes a toothy grin, Harry starts to laugh, leaning back against the seat and shaking his head in disbelief.

Louis deflects his attention back to the road, fingers drumming against the wheel, keeping in time with the radio. Harry reaches out, hand on his shoulder, fingers brushing against his neck. From the corner of his eye he can see Harry smiling at him brightly, features painted soft from his forehead all the way down to his chin. Louis’ chest heats, bursting, but he doesn’t turn away from the road.

Harry spends the first half an hour reading a novel translated from Russian, recently come popular by the trendy, artsy types. Harry is always reading books like that, but seeing as Louis is very unhip himself, most of the time he can’t be bothered to even learn the title. Harry will always tell him about them anyway, cheeks flushed and eyes dazed, speech much more animated than usual, so sometimes Louis figures he’s trendy solely by osmosis.

When Louis turns to look at him not long after, Harry is passed out, head lolled against the seatbelt with glasses askew, and book open on his lap, pages fluttering.

An hour outside of London they stop for food at a small truck stop diner, switching afterwards, Louis taking the passenger seat. They play the numberplate game for a bit which feathers into conversations from Africa to the 20’s to football. Niall and Emily recently broke up, which they discuss for awhile, mourning the loss of her before competing over who can name the most of his past girlfriends. Somehow, despite the fact that Harry was barely in the country for the past five years, he still wins. “Yeah, well, I was busy becoming a doctor,” Louis says in defense, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

Louis even tries to read some of Harry’s book, just for fun, but he falls asleep before he can even make it past the third page. He stirs awake just as they’re approaching the outskirts of London.

Louis booked them a room in a quaint bed & breakfast outside of Soho, owned by an older gay couple. Once they’re settled in their room, one of three in a large Victorian home, Louis asks, “So, what would you like to do today, birthday boy?”

Harry sits on the edge of the printed flower sheets, wiggling his eyebrows seductively. “I was thinking we should christen this bad boy,” he says, patting the mattress. “Get it ready for the loads of birthday sex I’ll be demanding.”

Louis laughs, moving towards him. Harry opens his legs, and Louis slides between easily, knees knocking against the mattress. “We could…” Louis rests his hands on Harry’s shoulder, noses brushing as Harry looks at him through thick eyelashes, teeth dragging over his bottom lip.

“I could fuck you.” Harry slips his hands up the back of his shirt before dipping them low, swooping into his boxers and grabbing onto as much cheek as Louis’ tight jeans will allow.

“Yeah. You sure you’re up for it? You were pretty knackered this morning. You could nap.”

Harry rolls his eyes, practically scowling as he tugs Louis down, hand still snaked inside his underwear. Louis tumbles down on top of him, and it’s an awkward shuffle as Louis’ chin knocks against Harry’s shoulder, both of them giggling. Harry’s hands slip further, pushing a finger inside of him. “You know I’m never too tired to fuck you, love,” Harry says huskily into his mouth, finger crooking inside the ring of muscle.

Louis inhales sharply, kissing him open mouthed in anticipation. With William, Louis almost always topped. He prefered it, liked that it gave him a sense of control. Even when he bottomed, he almost always ended up on top, riding him with the same intensity as if he were the one doing the fucking. With Harry it’s different. Top, bottom, any which way, and Louis loves it, putty in Harry’s hands. Harry could come up with some kinky shit, tie Louis up and take away all control, and Louis would hardly object. Harry mostly prefers to be fucked though, and _really_ fucked at times. Sometimes so hard and rough that Louis’ worried that he might break him, but Harry loves it, wanting more as his fingernails drag long gashes across his back. “God, Lou,” he’d say, “no one can fuck me like you.”

“Likewise,” Louis would say back, and it was true. Sex with Harry was something else, otherworldly. Yet, he’d be lying if he said that sometimes he didn’t long for something a little more, a little deeper, in a way. He didn’t know exactly what it was, couldn’t pinpoint it, but all he knew that was despite their euphoric, mind-blowing sex, something was off at times. Maybe he’s too sentimental, too romantic, but sometimes it feels a little - animalistic, showy even. All Louis wants to do is be able to look into Harry’s eyes and know with full certainty that they were connected by more than just their bodies.

Louis suspected that he was just being dramatic, over the top with expectations, as he assumes not every couple is blessed with their sex life. He should be grateful for that, and he is. Plus, how could he even begin to form his thoughts into words, have them make sense to Harry when he wasn’t even sure himself?

With great struggle they pull themselves out of bed to shower, Louis feeling well fucked while they lather each other up. Louis gives him a soapy blowjob, and Harry laughs, back against the tile and wet hair in front of his eyes. “God,” he says, “two blowjobs in one day, and it’s not even my birthday yet. What am I going to get tomorrow?”

The next morning, following a late night out in Soho, Louis lets Harry sleep in till ten before waking him with heavy kisses. Before he’s even fully awake, Louis takes Harry’s legs to his waist and pushes inside of him. He lets Louis do almost all of the work while he lays there boneless, eyes shut with a dopey smile on his face, arms circled loosely around Louis’ shoulders. Louis keeps his thrusts long and slow, savouring the pull and Harry’s warmth. While there’s been a few times now that Harry has fallen borderline submissive, Louis just as naturally slipping into the dominant role, it’s very rare that he manages to find and keep Harry so soft and pliant like he is now.

They come quietly, soft gasps and moans trapped inside each other’s mouths. Harry’s hands still running over Louis’ neck and chest, like he’s trying to burn the curves and lines of his body into memory. Harry keeps his legs wrapped around his waist, Louis collapsing his weight on top of him as they exchange warm and tender kisses without haste, Louis still buried inside of him.

When Harry opens his eyes, he smiles at Louis, dazed, as if trapped within a dream. Louis certainly feels like he’s inside of one. “God,” Louis says without thinking, “I’m so in love with you.”

Harry’s smile doesn’t falter, if anything Louis thinks it might’ve grown a bit larger, but instead of saying anything back he reconnects their lips. He nods briefly, making a humming sound within his throat. He doesn’t say it, but Louis figures it’s a step from the first time. Harry’s legs are still around his waist, hands over his chest, fingers splayed across his heartbeat. Maybe Louis’ only imaging it, reaching, but to him, the kiss tastes an awful lot like an _I love you_ , and in this moment, that’s enough.

*

Louis’ in the middle of an episode of _Big Brother_ when the door to his flat comes flying open, Harry’s shoes hitting the wall as he kicks them off with little care or precision. He slams the door behind him, letting out a loud and drawn out groan.

Louis diverts half of his attention from the telly towards Harry. “Why, hello to you too.”

Harry groans once more, offering no words as he yanks off his coat. Louis catches a whiff of coffee from where he sits on the couch.

Louis turns back to the telly just as one of the housemates throws a plate against the wall. The second one is being thrown when Harry falls directly on top of him, head on his shoulder and obstructing his view.

“Harry,” Louis whines underneath his weight and gangly limbs. “You’re crushing me.”

Harry lets out a small noise, adjusting himself until his knees are straddling Louis’ hips, weight lifted but head not leaving his shoulder. The smell of coffee beans and hazelnut syrup is undeniable.

“It’s like you’re one of those big dogs that think they’re actually a lap dog.”

Harry pinches his side, and pushes his face into Louis’ neck, ends of his hair tickling the sensitive skin. “I resent you calling me a dog.”

“A cute dog, though.”

A puff of hot air brushes against his neck, and Louis’ unsure as to whether it was from a laugh or a huff. “Looooou, I’ve had a bad day. Cuddle me.” Harry blindly reaches for his wrists, literally forcing them to wrap around his waist like Louis needs convincing.

Louis chuckles, tightly squeezing Harry’s middle before shifting the both of them, tucking Harry snugly against the back of the couch. Louis rakes a hand through his curls, bodies pressed flush together. “What’s wrong, muffin?”

“It’s just - ” he huffs, forehead lined with frustration, “I’m just so sick of being treated like shit, you know? Like I’m this dispensable nobody that’s only good for smiling and making their triple non-fat extra hot flat whites before they run off to their important career in their fucking high heels and suits.” Louis nods along while attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on Harry’s forehead with his thumb. “I know it’s my fault for travelling instead of going to school and whatever, but every time I put on that stupid fucking apron, I want to die. I’m sick of smelling like old coffee and milk, and mopping up kids' hot chocolates from the floor while the mum yaps away on her cellular. I’m twenty-five for god’s sake. I feel so useless, and - and insignificant.”

“Oh love, I’m sure no one thinks any less of you,” Louis insists, “and even if they do, fuck them. You’ve accomplished a lot, and you know it.”

Harry sighs, remaining seemingly unconvinced. “I just started thinking today, you know, like what the hell am I doing with my life? What am I going to do? I don’t have a clue, and Christ. I still live in my mum’s basement.”

“Haz, come on, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Louis says soothingly. “You’ve done a lot. More than most people can say, especially those dull business types. Think of all the places you’ve been, and all the people you’ve met. Hell, you made a real album. That’s pretty bloody cool, all right?”

Harry snorts, but Louis catches the trace of a smile on the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, one that never saw the light of day.”

Louis shoots him a pointed look before continuing, “So you might not have some cushy office job, but don’t cut yourself short just because you’re in a transition period. Plus, if it makes you feel any better, remember I’m twenty seven and working at a flower shop in _Donny_. That’s the last thing I ever wanted.”

“You practically have a degree, and you aren’t living at your parents,” he says persistently. Only Harry can make self-deprecation look cute. It’s infuriating sometimes.  

“Harry.” This time Louis squeezes his side, shooting him the most serious face he can muster while Harry pouts at him. He imagines this is what parents of four year-olds feel like, because all it takes is a few blinks of Harry's big, green eyes and Louis gives in, laughing and kissing him. What starts as a passing thought makes it way to his lips without permission as he casually says, “You can always live here, you know.”

Harry blinks at him, and Louis blinks back, feeling just as shocked as Harry appears. The thing is, the idea had been on Louis’ mind since Harry’s birthday. There was this awkward moment when they returned from London, neither of them sure whether Louis should drop him off at his place or if he should just come back to Louis’. Sure enough, they did go back to Louis’, and while he was laying in bed that night, Harry fast asleep, he very nearly woke him up right then to ask him if he’d move in for real. He didn’t, of course, but since then it’s nagged him. He was waiting for the right time - or at least until he mustered up enough courage, he should’ve known that eventually it would’ve just slipped out without much preparation.

He may be imagining it, but Harry seems to noticeably jump back from where he’s pushed against Louis, as if hoping the couch cushions will swallow him whole. “What?” he asks, still blinking, complexion unusually white. Not exactly the reaction Louis was hoping for, but for some reason, he hardly feels surprised.

“I mean, you practically live here already.” Louis removes the hand from Harry’s side and places it on his own.

Harry flounders for a minute before finally saying, “Isn’t it a little… soon?”

Louis shrugs, attempting to keep some illusion of cool and collectedness intact. He hopes his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel, and that his heart isn’t as loud to Harry as it is to him. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal,” he says incredulously.

“If you want it to be.”

“No,” Harry says, “it is all on it’s own.”

“Harry,” Louis attempts calmly, reasonable, “you spent one night at your house this past week. Maybe three times this entire month. You don’t even have to go home because all your stuff is here. I just figured it would be easier. No in betweens. And then you won’t have to be living in your parent’s basement anymore.”

Harry squirms out from between him, clambering over Louis’ legs to stand up. Louis sits up himself, watching Harry carefully, half worried that he’ll spontaneously combust in panic. Louis’ certainly panicking himself.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I’d be living at my boyfriend’s.”

“Exactly?” Louis says in confusion. “It’s not like you haven’t lived with a boyfriend before.”

“Not officially. Not like _this_.” He motions between them helplessly, as if Louis will understand what he means by the simple movement.

He does.

Louis slides his legs over, feet hitting the floor. He looks up at Harry, nearly pouting while Harry looks at the telly, face still drained of colour. In truth, Louis didn’t have high expectations for how Harry would react, which is why he waited nearly two weeks before letting it slip out. He hoped, of course, for a quick and enthusiastic reply of, “I thought you’d never ask! Of course I’ll live you with you, Louis!” but he knew, deep down, it was the least likely of all possible scenarios, seeing as Harry still had yet to meet his verbal affections with his own. Louis’ not sure whether he should be honored or pitied for his unrelenting persistence. “Okay, but… It’s just me, right? It doesn't have to be scary,” he attempts.

Harry turns away from the telly, shaking his head as if coming from a daze. “I have to - ” he starts, backing slowly towards the hallway. “I need to think about it, yeah?”

All Louis can do is blink and say, “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m going for a shower. I reek.” Harry’s already halfway down the hallway, suddenly appearing calm, casual, like it’s any other day and Louis didn’t just ask him to move in and Harry didn’t just reject him, once again. Harry scurries off, bathroom door shutting behind him before Louis can even blink.

 _Is_ he rushing it? All he knows is that he spent seven years without Harry, wishing he never screwed it up, wishing he could turn back time, and now he’s here, and it’s _great_ , and Louis doesn’t have a clue how these things are supposed to work. Not with them. It’s like a whole other breed with them, uncharted territory that Louis has to blindly fumble around in without hardly any tangible guidance from Harry himself. The only thing Louis knows with full certainty is that he wants to be around Harry all the time. He wants to talk to him and kiss him and listen to his bad days and fall asleep with him and watch bad television with him and tell him he loves him. He doesn’t know how _not_ to want it. It feels like a necessity now, as important as breath. It scares him sometimes, and he worries that Harry can sense it, this need, desperation. Louis misses the days that he was in control, when he could remain in check, keeping himself in his perfectly sealed box, tamed and untouchable. Though, consequences came with that too, and at much more of a price, starting with breaking Harry’s heart, and then ending with William’s death. He supposes he deserves it, karma and all that junk, that he’s now the one that’s raw and vulnerable while Harry remains just out of reach.

If Harry really does think about it, he doesn’t let Louis know. Life continues as is, Harry always at his flat but not officially, Harry laughing into his mouth and cooking meals but never saying I love you, and Louis never pushes.

Come March, Louis finds it harder to ignore, his lack of certainty magnifying the sense of disconnection from Harry during sex. He’s sick with the idea of losing Harry again, but he’s sick of pretending, sick of silently fighting for something that Harry isn’t giving him. He’s sick of feeling like the crazy, desperate one. It’s nearly been five months since they’ve started this, and It’s not even a confession of love that he needs, but at least some ground to stand on, clarity, something more than Harry’s tactful avoidance through sex and teasing.

Harry’s curled at his side, head pillow against his shoulder, breath soft against Louis’ sweat-slicked skin. Louis flicks his eyes across his complexion, watches the way his breath moves between his lips, his eyelids fluttering. He takes a deep breath of his own, and with a quiet but steady voice he forces himself to say, “Where do you go?”

Harry’s eyes blink open questioningly. His forehead scrunches together in confusion once Louis’ expression remains flat, offering no further explanation. “When?”

“When we have sex,” Louis says, slowly, delicately. He’s beginning to realize that this open honesty thing never becomes any easier. “It’s like you… I don’t know.” He sighs, pauses, and tries again, “I feel like sometimes you’re not even there. It’s like - I don’t know. Like you see it as a performance or something.”

Louis watches as the muscles on Harry’s shoulders tense, posture defensive as he pulls himself from Louis’. “Is it bad?”

“No,” Louis says quickly, shaking his head adamantly. “No, not at all. Of course it’s good. It’s really fucking good. That’s not it.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Harry asks, words thick with irritation, but his eyes flash with something else, something Louis can’t quite place. Fear, maybe.

“It’s not - it’s like. Sometimes you’re not - there. I feel like there’s this wall or something.” Louis keeps his eyes closed, as if that will help search his brain for the right words. “You don’t allow yourself to - I guess, get lost in it. You don’t let me in, not really. I try, and sometimes I get so close, you’re there, but there’s just like. No connection. It’s like we’re just fucking… like we could be strangers.”

“As opposed to _making love?_ ” Harry spits in contempt. He’s sitting up now, pulling his legs into his chest. He doesn’t look at Louis.

“Don’t mock me,” Louis bites back, wounded.

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it, frowning. “Sorry,” he eventually says, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. “I just don’t understand what you’re trying to say to me. What does that even mean? That we fuck like strangers?” The last words trail off quietly, expression hurt.

“No. That’s not what - ” Louis shakes his head, sighing. Of course he’s fucked up already. “Nothing. Nevermind. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You can’t just insult me and then say nevermind, Louis,” Harry says, now turning to look at him, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“I’m not insulting you,” Louis manages slowly, calmly, trying to push down his own frustration from creeping up from within his chest. He’s not sure if he’s more frustrated at himself or at Harry. “I’m trying to _communicate_. I just don’t know how to describe it or have it make sense. It’s just this feeling I get sometimes. Maybe it’s just me being sensitive.”

“I think so.”

Louis inhales sharply, pursing his lips together as he fumbles through tangled thoughts for words. “I just mean - sometimes I worry it’s all sex with us. Like, without it, what would we be?”

“You keep saying you aren’t insulting me, but I feel pretty fucking insulted right now. First, you’re saying I’m not good enough during sex, and now you’re saying that without it we’d be nothing?” Harry gets off the bed, kicking the contents on the floor around as he tries to find something to slip on. His face is scrunched together, expression pained and eyes flashing with anger.

Louis sits up, feeling dizzy. He knew he wouldn’t be able to explain himself properly, that Harry would get upset. Harry’s taking it like a direct attack, and Louis’ not sure how he’s supposed to diffuse this situation, to make him understand. “That’s not what I’m saying. Just everything ends in sex, and I don’t know - ”

“So we like fucking?” He cries in exasperation. “What’s so wrong with that?” He finally locates a pair of boxers, pulling them over his legs in a huff.

“I wish you’d stop saying it like that all the time,” Louis says quietly.

Harry laughs sourly into thin air, shaking his head. “ _Fine,_ ” he says, giving in. “But why are you trying to make it into a bad thing that we like to have sex? My god, Louis, this is so unbelievable that it’s humorous. You sound like such a hypocrite right now. If all the sex we’re having really bothers you that much, then why do you initiate it just as much as I do?” When Louis doesn’t answer right away, he continues by saying with a hint of disdain, “Silly me, here I was thinking that sex between couples is a good thing.”

Louis groans in frustration, nearly pulling his hair out. “It’s not that! All I’m trying to say is that I don’t get where you are. I have no idea how you feel. I keep trying to - Fuck, Harry.” Louis puts his face into his hands, taking in a deep breath. He waits a minute, maybe three, gaining the courage as he asks quietly, not looking up, “Do you love me?”

“What?”

Slowly, Louis forces himself to lift his gaze, meeting Harry’s. “It’s a simple question,” he says a bit louder, voice noticeably shaking. “Either yes, you love me, or no, you don’t.”

“You just insulted me. Do you really think I’m in the mood to give you compliments?”

“It’s not a compliment, Harry! Christ. I’ve told you three times in the past few months that I love you, and you brush it off every time. You barely even _acknowledge_ it. So excuse me for feeling a little insecure in where we stand.”

Harry sucks in a breath, and stares at Louis unblinkingly, caught. “I wasn’t ready…” he says after a few tense, silent moments.

“Ready for what? We’ve known each other for _thirteen_ years! We’ve already said it!”

“We were completely different people thirteen years ago. Five years ago. We’re adults now!”

“So what?” Louis asks with a heavy chest. “You don’t love me now?”

“That’s not what I’m saying! Goddamnit, Louis!” Harry turns, roughly pushing his hands through his hair as he kicks at the leg of the dresser. “Yes, okay?” he cries, turning back to him, eyes ablaze. “Yes, I love you! Are you fucking happy now?”

Louis blinks at him, chest heaving and thoughts racing. “No," he eventually says, “not when you say it like that, like it’s painful to even utter the words.”

“Sorry if I'm not exactly bursting with happy feelings right now. I told you I wasn’t ready. You’re the one that cornered me!”

“How can you even get mad at me for this?” Louis asks unfathomably. “How am I supposed to know how you feel? I’m not a mind reader. There’s only so far I can go without having a clue what you’re thinking or feeling back.”

“I told you I care about you. I call you my fucking boyfriend. I practically live here - ”

“But you don’t,” Louis reminds, “because you said no when I asked.” Harry goes to open his mouth, to most likely yell some more, complexion splotchy and red, but Louis continues before he can get a word in, “And you’ve had like, twenty three boyfriends. How am I supposed to know whether I’m any different if you never say anything? Is it really too much to ask to have some idea how you feel about me? After _everything?_ ”

Harry’s mouth falls open in shock, clearly offended, as the rash of anger flares up on his neck. “I have _not_ had twenty three relationships.”

“Well, there’s been a hell of a lot more than my one,” Louis bites back, stubbornly. “Come on, you always used to go on about how much you’ve been fucked, Harry.”

“So, what? You’re going to hold that against me now? Call me a slut? Go ahead!”

“What?” Louis groans in frustration, pressing the ball of his hand against his forehead until he’s sure he’s left a mark. “No,” he says firmly, “all I’m saying is that a lot of them have come and gone, and how am I supposed to know that I’m any different?”

“The fact that you’re even questioning it is - mind-boggling. I never went through even half the shit with them as I have with you. And if we had, I sure as hell wouldn’t still be there as I am right now. I can’t even believe - God.” He lets out his own grunt in anger, once again kicking the leg of the dresser. “All those relationships were so insignificant. I didn’t think I had to explain your importance over them. You had a _three_ year relationship, and you’re going off on me like _I_ have something to apologize for?”

“What are you - Why are you even bringing William into this? That’s completely besides the point! This is about you never telling me how you felt. I'm just supposed to guess and hope I'm right? Your silence makes me wonder if _I_ could be just as insignificant as all the others, just a bit of fun for now, something you wanted as a teenager. I told you how I felt, I told you I loved you. _That’s_ the difference.”

Harry’s laughing again, harsh and biting. “Oh my god, can you even hear yourself? After everything, _everything_ we’ve been through, you’re seriously questioning whether you’re insignificant. You _know_ you’re not. And not only that, but you’re throwing my past mistakes at me like I’m proud of it? Because yes, Louis, you’re right, I have been with a lot of people, I’ve had my share of relationships. I even loved some of them, but a lot of them I regret, and I didn’t think - I didn’t think it mattered. That it affected anything between us because it wasn’t the same. Of course it wasn’t. I didn’t think I had to say that to you.” He takes a second to swallow, voice becoming choked and strained. Louis watches him carefully, barely breathing, sheets balled inside his fists. “There’s a reason this has been going on for ten years, when those others couldn’t even make it a year. Not one. The longest was Chris fucking Ryan, who only ever fucked me in the backseat of his car and broke up with me by kicking my ass. So why do you get to act like the one that was hurt? I might’ve slept around, but as far as I could see, you didn’t want me. You left me, and a year later you were with some other bloke. What does that say to me? If anyone should be worried, it should be _me_ , because I was the one who got my heart broken and left pining while you found someone else.”

“That’s not even - that’s not fair,” Louis fumbles, suddenly confused and slightly helpless as he looks up at Harry noticeably fighting back tears. All bite is gone, and now he’s just lost. “You hated me and then you weren’t even around - ”

“What did you expect me to do? Sit around and rot in Donny while you played house with your fucking boyfriend in Oxford?” Harry snaps. “You didn’t want me, and you made that abundantly clear. And then your boyfriend dies, and suddenly you always loved me?”

“You don’t believe me?” Louis asks, hurt.

“No, that’s not it,” Harry says. “It’s just that - yeah, maybe I didn’t tell you I loved you yet, but it’s not so easy for me either.”

By now, Louis’ forgotten where the argument even started. He’s too shocked by Harry’s admissions, caught in the raw look in his eyes, something he hasn’t seen on him in a long, long time. This was what Louis was striving for - honesty, for once, but he didn’t want it like this, tears welling in Harry’s eyes. 

“Harry,” he starts softly, “I’m not going to say that I didn’t love William, because I did. But you were also always there. Always. And it was different when it came to you, like you said I was different. I hate how everything went down, just as much as you do. And I hate that I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, Harry. I wish I could take it back.” Louis goes to slide off the bed, to go over to Harry and hold him, to take it all back. Before his feet even hit the floor, Harry’s holding his hands out to stop him, shaking his head.

“I gotta go. I can’t do this right now.” He quickly swipes a hand underneath his right eye before reaching for trousers and a shirt on the floor.

“Harry…”

“No, I need to think about - about all of this. I don’t even know how to process it all.”

Louis stares after him, dumbfounded as Harry slips into his trousers. He doesn’t have a clue as to what to say to make him stay, to fix it. Everything happened so quickly that he doesn’t even know what to fix. “Harry, you can’t just walk out.”

Harry pulls on his shirt, giving him a short look before walking towards the door. “I’m not walking out. This isn’t my home. I’m going to _my_ house to cool off and get my thoughts in order - without you.” He lingers at the door, eyes catching Louis’. “Please, just give me space for like, a day, okay?”

Harry says _space_ , but Louis hears _break-up_ , heart sinking into his gut. Space? That’s what Louis would say to William when he was being particularly suffocating or demanding. Louis’ always been the one who needs space, not people needing space from him. Not Harry. “You can’t be serious,” is all he manages to get out, feeling entirely helpless.

“I am. This is just too much. I can’t think when you’re just - springing all these things on me.” Harry throws his hands up in the air, now refusing to meet Louis’ gaze. “Please don’t call me in an hour, or two. Respect this. Give me a day, okay?”

Harry doesn’t wait for a reply before he’s turning on his heel, disappearing down the hallway. Louis doesn’t move, dread heavy in his chest, listening as the front door slams behind Harry.


	12. ix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> found pictures for the banner at various places on tumblr, the manips i found were originally posted by tumblr user somediamonds though the original post is no longer there. thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, but special thanks to [kara](http://decisionsandrevisionsfic.tumblr.com/) for sticking with this the entire time and being the very best beta a girl could ever ask for. lots and lots of love to every single one of you xx

 

The twenty hours following his fight with Harry is the longest he’s ever had to endure. The fact that he can’t sleep doesn’t help to move the hours by any faster, and he calls Zayn and Perrie at least half a dozen times until they stop answering all together. Initially, Louis didn’t give them the details, only that they had a fight, and that Louis had said things that he probably shouldn’t have and that Harry had stormed out, requesting space. Surprisingly, it was Zayn, not Perrie, who pressed for more details.

Louis had been hesitant at first, then digressed, “I was just upset because I didn’t know how he felt. About me.”

“Mate, seriously? How did you not know? The whole world knows.”

Louis ignored him, and said, “He never told me he loved me.”

“And you told him?”

“Yeah, a few times, and he just ignored it. So I confronted him about it, all in the wrong way, I’m sure. Now he wants space, Zayn. _Space_ ,” he had cried out dramatically. “What if he breaks up with me?”

“Louis,” Zayn reprimanded, “he’s not going to break up with you. Wanting a little space after an argument is completely normal.”

“Yeah?” Louis asked, hopeful. “You and Perrie have?”

“Yeah. Once for four days. I really thought she was going to break up with me, but it ended up being for the better. Gave us both a few days to cool off and think things over.” Zayn paused long enough for Louis to sigh before he continued by saying, “Trust me, mate, he loves you. Has for a long time. He’s not going to give up that easily.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because I’m not bloody blind,” Zayn said, and Louis had laughed, feeling marginally better.

Around four o’clock and nearing the twenty first hour, Louis’ finally beginning to doze off on his couch when he hears a key in the door. He sits up immediately, whole body turning as Harry comes walking through the door, grocery bags in hand.

They both blink at each other, taking a moment before Harry speaks, “I thought you’d be at work.”

“Day off,” Louis supplies.

“Oh.” Harry looks between Louis, his bags and then back again, appearing a little helpless. “I was going to surprise you with dinner.”

“Oh," Louis says blankly. "Why would you do that?”

Harry blinks, confused. “To apologize?”

“You don’t have to apologize. I should be the one apologizing.”

Harry shrugs, resting the bags on the ground before walking over to Louis, shoes and coat still on. “You were just being honest.”

“I could’ve said it a lot better though.”

Harry takes a seat next to him, gingerly, close but not touching. “You were just upset, and understandably so.” Harry looks up at him, eyes wide and imploring, seemingly nervous. “I shouldn’t have expected you to just know what I was thinking or - feeling. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for bringing all that stuff up with William, that wasn’t fair of me. I guess I was just a bit more insecure about it all than I thought.”

“I don’t want you to think I came to you afterwards in - convenience or anything. That you were a consolation prize or that I was lying.”

“I don’t.” Harry shakes his head, smiling small. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“And I shouldn’t have brought up your past relationships like that. Or sex. We don’t fuck like strangers,” Louis clarifies.

Harry’s smile doesn’t falter, shrugging lightly as if to say it doesn’t matter anyway. Louis watches him suspiciously, but doesn’t ask any questions, instead waiting for Harry to speak.

Eventually, Harry reaches out to take ahold of Louis’ hands, though he sees the hesitation, as if Harry’s not sure he should, or not sure that he wants to. “I do, you know?” he says, very softly. “Love you. I’m sorry it took that for me to say it.”

Louis wants to ask why - why it took that, what made him not ready, but he doesn’t. Instead, he squeezes his hand and leans into him, brushing lips against Harry’s temple. “And I love you.” He should be ecstatic, but something feels a little bit off, tense, though Louis can’t pinpoint exactly what it is. For all he knows it could be his own lack of sleep.

Harry’s here and that’s what matters. He didn’t break up with him, and he told him he loved him without yelling. Louis believes him and he’s happy, even if his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Harry rests a hand on Louis’ jaw, leading his mouth towards his. They exchange soft, unhurried kisses before Harry’s pulling back to move his hand up, fingertips brushing against the bags under Louis’ eyes. “Have you slept?”

“No,” he says admittedly. “Have you?”

Harry cracks a small smile, shaking his head.

“It’s awful fighting with you.”

“Horrendous,” Harry agrees.

“Let’s never do it again?” Louis asks, leaning forward to brush their mouths back together.

Harry nods, and murmurs, “Deal.”

*

Thursday at 4 pm, Louis and Harry are sent identical texts from Liam telling them Brittany is in labour. Friday at 7 am, they’re awoken by Harry’s ringtone. Harry doesn’t stir, so Louis answers to Liam all but yelling, “Holy fucking shit, I’m a dad. I have a daughter. A real life, breathing, shitting baby.”

“Don’t panic,” Louis says, though he figures it’s a little too late. “We’re leaving now.”

Louis has a significantly easier time getting Harry out of bed than on most days. In fact, all Louis really has to do is shake his shoulder and say, “baby” before he’s jumping out of bed and hopping into the first pair of trousers he finds on the floor. Louis’ the one still looking up at him from the bed while Harry rushes for the door with a t-shirt in hand, yelling, “Come on, _let’s go_.”

Amelia Charlotte Payne is born at a healthy eight pounds, with large hazel eyes, her father’s nose and a head full of dark hair. Louis spends more time at Liam’s in the following week than he has in five years. If Liam and Brittany mind they don’t let on, grateful for Louis’ expertise from growing up with younger siblings, and what he suspects is the hope for much needed rest. Neither of them take it though, of course, Brittany refusing to even take her eyes off of her daughter. He’s surprised she even allows Harry and himself to hold Amelia, looking pained every time she hands her over, as if they’ll hold on too tight or drop her.

Louis would be lying if he were to say he didn’t want kids. He can’t say he’s in a hurry, but according to the plans he once had for himself, he should be settling down. At least engaged, if not already married. Of course, most of his life hasn’t progressed in the way Louis had once hoped, so he can’t say that he’s surprised, or even much disappointed to see that it’s not the case for either. Seeing as Harry still hasn’t brought up officially moving in, Louis kind of doubts that he’d respond to warmly towards a proposal. Louis most likely would though, if he suspected Harry were open to it, and the thought doesn’t scare him like he once thought it would. It’s nearly impossible for it to while Harry coddles Amelia, kissing her nose and playing with her feet while Louis’ holds her. He wonders if it makes him crazy, that he’s even considering something like that after such a short amount of time. Harry would certainly think so.

Which is exactly why he won’t be proposing anytime soon. And when he does, he _won’t_ be telling Zayn.

“I want one,” Louis whines, batting his eyelashes at the top of Harry’s head.

Harry lets Amelia keep a hold on his finger while he hums under his breath, not looking up.

Yeah, Louis figured as much.

During their weekly grocery shop, while picking up diapers for Amelia, Louis secretly revels in their fight over which brand to get. Louis calls Harry cheap for wanting to get Tesco’s brand, and Harry retaliates with, “And you’re being a snob. You’re just paying extra for her to shit in Winnie the Pooh.”

Through it all, Louis has to make a point to remind himself that it’s not actually _their_ baby that they’re shopping for.

Nearing five minutes into the fight, someone sidles up next to them saying, “Tesco’s brand works surprisingly well, but as my boy’s getting older, Pamper’s fits him a lot better. It’s all trial and error, really.”  

“See,” Harry says, nudging Louis’ shoulder. “He said I was just being cheap - ”

Louis looks towards the intruder just as Harry trails off, nearly choking on air when he sees who’s standing there with a Pampers bag in hand. Chris Ryan is smiling at them, hands shoved inside his pockets and eyes shifting nervously. Louis hasn’t seen him since his last year of secondary. Even though it’s nearly been ten years, he looks quite similar with casual, loose fitting clothing and the same thick, blond hair, though shorter than he remembers. The only stark difference is the apparent beer belly showing from underneath his jumper. Louis nearly fistpumps in victory.

Then all it takes is Harry to say, “Chris. Wow, hi,” and the urge is swiftly taken over by the urge to punch him instead. How dare he think he can just come over and talk to them after all of these years, after he hurt Harry. Louis should knock him out. At the very least he should give him -

“You two are together? And you have a baby? Wow, that’s so great to hear!”

“Oh, we don’t have a kid,” Harry says quickly, as if that’s what really matters in this situation.

Louis not-so discreetly pushes himself between the two of them, forcing space as he looks up at Chris with squared shoulders and what he hopes to be an intimidating scowl. Much like he remembers, Chris has an easy four inches on him, and despite the gut, has noticeably larger arms. Louis may feel tiny in comparison, but he is certainly _not_ intimidated.

Chris gives them a confused look, and Harry elaborates by saying, “We’re shopping for our friend. Liam Payne? Do you remember him? He was in my year.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He looks slightly embarrassed over the situation, though seemingly not catching onto Louis’ stance as he says, “You are together though, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, all but baring his teeth before Harry can even respond. Harry, on the other hand, does notice his anger because Louis feels his hand wrap around his bicep, squeezing, as if offering comfort. When Louis turns to look at him, Harry meets him with a brief, _let me take care of it, okay?_ Louis looks away, stubborn, posture remaining. If there’s one thing Harry doesn’t do, it’s take care of things. He’s being too nice when he should’ve told Chris to bugger off the second he stepped in to offer diaper advice.

“Okay. Yeah. Good,” Chris says, leg bouncing.

“So, you’re married then.” Louis nods towards the ring on his hand, voice dripping with disdain. The closeted bastard from his footie team who fucked and then beat up his boyfriend is married to a woman. How unsurprising. “And you have a kid. Wow.”

“I know. Crazy, right?” he laughs feebly.

Louis fist clenches at his side. Could he be arrested for punching a bloke in the baby aisle at Tesco? Would it be worth it?

“Yeah, insane,” Louis says, sure the sarcasm is evident as he grabs a bag of Huggies from the shelf. “Anyway, as lovely as this reunion was, we best be - ”

“Wait,” Chris says quickly, holding out a hand to stop them as Louis begins to walk away, pulling Harry along with him. Chris appears even more nervous now, biting onto his lip and eyes deliberately avoiding Louis’. His shifting gaze eventually lands on Harry, still tucked behind Louis. “Look, Harry, I’ve wanted to apologize to you for a very long time. We live in Leeds now, but every time I’m here to visit I look up your number in means to call you up, but I always chicken out. I didn’t much hope to have this conversation in Tesco, but you’re here now and I can’t just let this opportunity go.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, eyes shifted towards the floor, but the grip on Louis’ arm tightens

“I guess I was so scared because I knew that no matter what I said, it couldn’t undo it. What I did. I was absolutely awful to you, Harry, and I swear, there’s rarely a day that goes by that it doesn’t cross my mind. I have so many things to owe to you, and I repaid you in such an awful, horrible way. It was shit. I was shit. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

“Um, yeah. Thanks,” Harry says after a moment, struggling to lift his gaze and look at Chris directly. Eventually, he succeeds and says, “Thank you.”

“I suppose we should all go for some tea now, hm?” Louis bites back unhumorously. “Sorry mate, but you can’t do something shit then wait ten years before apologizing just to appease your conscious and have it be alright.”

“I know. I know. I didn’t expect - ”

“Louis,” Harry says sharply, tugging on his arm and giving him a pointed look. Louis blinks back. What else was he supposed to do? Just stand there and say nothing? He regrets not being there for Harry then, and he’ll be damned if he isn’t now. “Chris, really,” Harry says, bringing his attention back to the bigger man, “thank you for apologizing. It was a long time ago, and I’ve already forgiven you, but thank you.”

Louis snaps to stare at Harry in disbelief, rage swelling inside his gut. He’s _already forgiven him?_ He’s _thanking_ him for beating him up? On most occasions, Louis might love Harry for his genuine sweetness and compassion towards others, but during times like this, he wishes he’d just stop being _so nice_ and say what they deserve to hear.

Louis might’ve said something else on his behalf, earning a slap from Harry that would’ve been well worth it, but a tiny bloke in red-framed glasses and a bright blue jumper comes sidling up next to Chris before he can. “Babe, I couldn’t find that juice you and Oscar like. You know that organic blueberry stuff with the elephant on the front?”

Chris flicks his attention to the newcomer only briefly before looking back at Harry, then at Louis. Louis stares between them, flabbergasted. Surely he’s got the wrong impression. Maybe he said mate, not babe. But this bloke, this bouncing, smiling, flamboyant bloke is wearing a matching wedding ring and talking about his favourite juice. There’s no way Chris fucking Ryan is married to a man, and he’s not. Louis doesn’t even have to look at Harry to know his stunned expression matches his perfectly.

The bloke looks between the three of them, clearly confused as they all stare at each other, before smiling brightly at Harry and Louis, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Charlie.” His hand remains awkwardly extended for a moment as neither of them go to shake it.

Slowly, Harry does while blinking up at Chris in a daze. “Wait,” he says. “You have a _husband?_ "

Chris frowns, now clearly the one confused. “Well, yeah.” He forces a laugh, eyes darting between all three. “You do remember that I’m gay, right?”

“Yes, but…” Harry looks down at his hand, as if only realizing now that he’s still shaking Charlie’s hand, and instantly drops it. “Sorry,” he says, cheeks pink. “I’m Harry, and this is Louis, my - ”

“Not his husband,” Louis chimes in without thought, wondering if the bitterness came out as sharply as it sounded to his own ears.

“Uh. Yeah. My boyfriend."

Confusion is lined deeply into Charlie’s forehead before recognition flashes in his eyes. “Oh, Harry,” he says, smiling wide and genuine. “Hi. So nice to meet you.” He bites onto his lip, suddenly unsure. “I feel like I should be apologizing.”

Louis rolls his eyes while Harry shakes his head, waving his hands in deterrence. “Apologize? No, don’t do that. You have no reason to apologize. I just met you.”

“I know, but - ” He looks between Harry and Chris, then shrugs.

Louis needs to get out of here _now_.

“Anyway, we were just leaving,” he says, and starts to walk away, whether Harry is following or not. It might be rude seeing as this Charlie fellow seems nice enough, despite the fact that he married an absolute twat, yet Louis doesn’t feel much for being polite right now.

Harry catches up to him in the next aisle, coming up close but not touching. He swallows, shakes his head as if attempting to clear his thoughts. “Shit.”

Louis nods. They spend the rest of their shop in silence.

Once in the car, halfway to Liam’s, Louis says, “Do you really forgive him?”

“Well, yes,” Harry says without a beat.

“But how?”

Harry shrugs. “We were both young. He was scared. Plus, like, what’s the point of staying mad? It was forever ago. I have better things to focus my energy on. Holding onto anger and resentment is a choice, and I chose not to. Just like I chose not to with you.”

Louis bites onto his tongue. Did Harry really just compare him to Chris Ryan and not even bat an eyelash over it?

“It’s nice to see that he’s happy, and that he accepted himself,” Harry continues. “Hell, even to marry a bloke and have a kid, and at so young. Shit, compare our lives and you’d think I was the closeted one.”

Louis hums in acknowledgement, mind still plagued by his comment. It tugs at him all the way to Liam’s, and then all the way into the night, to when they get home to find Zayn and Perrie’s wedding invitation in the mail. Harry’s wondering aloud what to wear to the wedding, entirely unfazed by that afternoons events, all the while Louis is wondering if forgiving Chris was as easy as forgiving him had been, and if that even means anything.

“Can we be super cheesy and match? But, like, in a real subtle way, obviously. We don’t want to be one of _those_ couples.” Harry grins down at him, arms wrapped around his middle.

“You want to go matching to our friends wedding?”

Harry shrugs, appearing a little bashful. “Yeah, why not? It could be fun. Just like matching undershirts or something. Or knickers, that way no one will know except us.”

“I’m pretty sure we wear matching knickers already,” Louis says. Seeing as their underwear ends up in the same drawer, Louis’ isn’t even sure who’s he is wearing on most days.

Harry shrugs again. “I’ll figure it out,” he says, and kisses Louis.

Harry ends up buying them matching white button-ups, noticeable only for the thin black-trimmed collar. It ends up being both laughable and adorable seeing as they’re already put in matching tux’s and blue ties as Zayn’s groomsmen - Louis rightfully the best man.

The wedding falls on a beautiful day in May, which is especially lucky for them as they chose an outdoor wedding in the large garden of Perrie’s aunts as to avoid any complications deciding between a mosque and a church. There’s flowers galore, the ones from the garden and the others arranged and discounted by Louis himself. Perrie’s dress is modest and tasteful, a crown of fresh flowers resting in her curled blonde hair. Louis most definitely does _not_ cry when they exchange their vows. Naturally, Harry bawls like a baby.

The reception is held in the garden as well, tables brought out, and lights strung and twinkling in the trees. Harry and Louis watch their first dance from the corner of the dance floor, Harry’s arms around Louis’ middle and humming along to the melody against his ear. Louis rests his head against his chest, grinning up at him through his eyelashes. Harry grins back, bending down to kiss the tip of his nose. Harry may not want to marry him right now, but Louis feels pretty damn happy, anyway.

The song transitions into another ballad, Zayn and Perrie still smiling dopely at one another from the middle of the dancefloor as other couples begin to join them. Harry grins wider, eyes flickering between Louis’ and the floor. He even wiggles his eyebrows.

“No,” Louis says, laughing, “I absolutely do not dance.”

Harry rolls his eyes, not having it as he moves from behind Louis, keeping his hands on his waist and pulling him along. “Nice try,” Harry says.

Louis sighs, and doesn’t even try to fight it. “I feel like we’re in one of those cheesy romantic comedies,” he says, arms slipping around Harry’s neck.

“I love cheesy romantic comedies.”

Louis smiles. “I know.”

“ _So take my heart in sweet surrender, and tenderly say that I’m the one that you love and live for til’ the end of time,_ ” Harry croons. He takes one of Louis’ hands, rocking them back and forth out of rhythm. Louis snorts while Harry continues, tilting his head back and belting into the sky, “ _Til’ the wells run dry, and each mountain disappears, I’ll be there for you to care for you through laughter and through tears_.”

“You’re a dork,” Louis says fondly, smoothing his thumb along Harry’s temple, tucking a curl behind his ear.

Harry grins into his mouth. “You know it, baby.”

“And yet, for some strange reason, I still love you,” Louis says. “I must be crazy."

“Absolutely insane,” Harry confirms.

Harry manages to keep Louis on the dancefloor for another four songs, despite the fact that they become upbeat. Harry’s an awful dancer, but since he doesn’t seem to care as he twirls and throws his hands in the air and jumps back and forth, he gives the illusion that he might be. Louis laughs the entire time, deciding that he doesn’t care either and jumps around with him. When _You’re the One that I Want_ comes on, Harry claps his hands together in excitement, and they end up playing out the moves, Louis entirely unfazed that they look like proper idiots. Perrie and Zayn join them first, Zayn slapping Louis back and laughing. “Didn’t know you were taking dance lessons, mate.” Liam, Niall and Brittany join them soon after, and they all look like idiots together. Louis feels young, and very happy.

It’s nearing eleven, table covered in empty glasses of wine and beer when Niall points a drunken finger at Harry and Louis, and then Liam and Brittany, saying, “Oi, which out of you two is going to get married first?” He narrows his eyes at Liam and Brittany. “You two have a kid, but you two… well, it’s you two.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis asks.

“Maybe you’ll get married first, Ni.” Liam grins cheekily.

Niall snorts, swiping his hand through the air as if shooing away nonsense. “Ha!” He focuses his attention on Harry and Louis, and says, “We have bets, you know.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

He nods. “Yeah, who was it? Who won the last one, lads?”

Zayn raises his hand slowly, looking mildly guilty. “That was me.”

“Right. Right, yeah. Zayn, here. He won out of default, because he said you’d get together when Harry here was twenty-three. I said twenty-one, because I didn’t think you tossers would take so bloody long. Holy hell. I thought for sure you’d be the first married out of us all.”

Louis looks to Liam, curious. “And what did you say there, mate?”

Liam looks embarrassed as he picks at the tablecloth. “I might’ve - ”

“He said never! He thought you two would never get your shit together, but me and Zayn, we knew. We knew didn’t we, mate?” Niall elbows him.

“Hey,” Liam defends, “it’s not that I didn’t think that - well, I always reckoned you were right for each other, I just thought you two might be too dense to figure it out.”

“Aw, how very sweet of you, Li,” Louis says dryly.

“Technically, I was the one that guessed right,” Perrie chimes in smugly, “but these bastards here wouldn’t let me in on it.”

Louis gasps at her, feigning offence. “Perrie, how very dare you try and make profit on our very real relationship. I would’ve thought you better than that.”

Perrie sticks out her tongue, and Louis mirrors her in retaliation. Realizing then that Harry’s been silent next to him, Louis glances over to see him staring steadfastly down at his empty dessert plate, the corner of his lip turned up just slightly.

“So you have bets now? On who will get married first?” Louis asks.

“No, just how long it will take for you two to,” Niall says.

Louis laughs, rolling his eyes. “Nice.” He leans back, slinging an arm around the back of Harry’s chair, fingers draped along his shoulder and tapping along to the song playing. Harry slowly lifts his eyes up to Louis, smile strained.

Louis looks at him questioningly, but Harry flicks his gaze away, glancing around the table as he takes ahold of his wine glass. “You are all bastards,” he says.

Louis keeps his eyes on Harry, watching as he downs the rest of his wine, signalling the waiter for another. Apparently he’s decided that he’s back to drinking alcohol, though it’s news to Louis.

It’s another five minutes before Harry finally looks back at Louis, eyes unreadable. He tips his glass at Louis in cheers, single eyebrow raised, as if wondering why Louis’ been staring at him this entire time. Louis has the faint suspicion that he knows.

Slowly, Louis grabs for his own glass, tipping it towards Harry. Harry smiles over the rim, swigging back the remainder.

*

The first time Harry sleeps at home in over a month, Louis tries not to think too much of it, though he’s confused as he had _thought_ they had finally reached a quiet, unspoken transition, in which Harry was now, in fact, living with him. The second time it happens that week, Louis becomes even more nervous. Harry insists nothing is wrong, that he’s only trying to appease his guilt-tripping mum who keeps nagging him on how little she’s seen her baby in these past seven years. By the following month, Harry makes a habit of staying home once a week, wherein Louis spends sleepless nights tossing and turning. He wonders if Harry has as hard of a time sleeping without him, but he never says and Louis never asks.

As far as Louis can tell, everything else seems fine between them. They continue their domestic charade the nights he is at Louis’ - they chat about their day, cook dinner, wash the dishes, catch up on their favourite shows, and on most nights, finish off with a good shag. So those days when Harry doesn’t come home after work, Louis tells himself there’s no need to worry, that his fears are irrational. He tells himself Harry just wants to spend these few nights at home before completely committing to living with Louis. Harry must know, just as well as him, that once he does, that’s it. Done deal.

On a Saturday afternoon in June, while warming up for football, Niall kicks him the ball and asks ever casually, “So, hows the packing going?”

“Packing? For what?” Louis frowns, kicking the ball back.

Niall laughs, rolling his eyes like Louis’ just being silly. “For the move."

The ball rolls past Louis as he freezes, staring blankly at Niall. “What are talking about? I’m not moving.”

Niall’s smile instantly fades, eyes going wide and face dropping. “Oh shit. Harry, you fucking tosser,”  he curses into the air.

“Niall, what?” Louis demands, closing the space between them with three large strides. Panic is rising in his chest, and he has to stop himself from reaching for Niall, shaking his shoulders and demanding that he speak. “What did Harry do? What’s going on?”

Niall slaps his hand to his forehead, looking at Louis behind his fingers. “Lou, shit,” he says, visibly wincing. “He’s - he’s moving to London.”

Louis can do nothing but stare, gobsmacked as his stomach drops into his arse, all blood leaving his face. “What?” he manages to get out.

“I thought he told you. He was supposed to tell you. I told him that you’d go with him. I mean, I figured - I - Shit, Louis. I’m sorry.”

There’s a million questions racing through his mind, so fast it’s dizzying, and Louis could quite possibly retch right now. What does he mean Harry’s moving to London? How could he? Why would he? “Why did he tell you and not me?” he asks, voice coming out gravely calm next to his racing heart. “When did he tell you?”

Niall hesitates, wincing further as if he’s experiencing physical pain by merely telling Louis. “About two weeks ago. He wanted to know what I thought. His old friend there is starting up this magazine and offered him a job to help launch it and what not. I said it sounded great. I thought for sure he’d tell you right away, and I thought you’d go with him. I mean, you would’ve, right?"

Louis’ definitely going to be sick. “Yes, but that doesn’t even fucking matter, does it? Because he didn’t tell me.”

“Maybe he’s not going anymore,” Niall says. “I haven’t talked to him about it since then.”

Louis spins around, looking for something to kick, but all he sees is open field. The football has long rolled away. Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Niall’s right. Maybe Harry decided not to go afterall, and found no reason to mention it to Louis. Louis wouldn’t put it past him. That seems like something infuriating that Harry would do. Then again, running away is also something Harry does well, and this seems an awful lot like running away.

“I gotta go see him.”

Niall doesn’t say anything, just bites his lip and watches as Louis runs through the field towards his car. He drives past his own street, already knowing Harry won’t be there, and goes straight for his parent’s. He feels dizzy, hands shaking and head racing. He’s lucky he doesn’t end up in an accident as he’s sure he ran at least two stop signs. He curses Harry aloud the entire time.

There’s no vehicles in Harry’s driveway, but the front door is unlocked so Louis enters without knocking. He finds Harry on his bed downstairs, stretched out and reading a book that’s propped on his stomach. He barely looks over the top as Louis barges in through the door.

Louis scans the room. Even though he hasn’t been in here for close to six months, it seems as if everything is in it’s place. No boxes - but then, in the corner of the room, near the closet, he sees a suitcase, open with clothes inside. He stares at it, rage swelling hot inside his chest.

Harry says, “What are you doing here?”

Louis turns to look at him, gaze hard. “So it’s true,” he says. “You’re going to London.”

Harry instantly sits up, setting the book down at his side. He looks up at Louis with widened, and guilty, eyes, “Lou - ”

“Niall let it slip.” He laughs harshly into the air. “Let it slip,” he repeats. “Like you shouldn’t have fucking told me about this. What the hell is your problem, Harry?”

“I was going to tell you,” he says insistently. He doesn’t even try to move from his position on the bed, watching Louis as he begins to pace.

“What? Were you going to wait until a day before so I had no options?”

“What options would there be?” he asks, cluelessly. “I can’t stay in Donny, Louis. I’m suffocating. An opportunity came up - ”

“What options?” Louis repeats disbelievingly, not caring that he’s yelling now. “Uh, maybe that I could’ve come with you? Like Niall said I would - ”

“Louis,” Harry says, like he’s chastising a small child, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous, is it?” Louis asks. “But moving without telling your boyfriend isn’t?”

“Lou… I need this,” Harry attempts quietly.

“Do you, Harry? Or do you need to run away again?”

Harry sucks in a breath, and blinks up at him as if caught in headlights. “No,” he says, calmly, though the shake in his voice betrays him. “No, that’s not it. I told you I can’t stay here, and I would never expect you to just drop your life and come and follow me.”

“Harry, I work at a bloody flower shop. All my friends are either married or have babies. I’m twenty-seven. I want to get out of Donny too,” Louis says. “But more than that, I love you. I already told you I can’t lose you again. I won’t. If you were to leave on me again, that’s it. I’m not sure we have any shots left at this.”

“I just - ” Harry shakes his head, swallowing. He looks out the window, avoiding Louis’ piercing eyes. “Louis, you couldn’t.”

“Harry!” Louis cries, running his hands through his hair and tugging at the ends. “Fuck, okay, if you don’t love me then - then just tell me, alright? Don’t hide behind this. It’ll fucking hurt, but it’s better than this. Better than you dragging it on and pretending. I can’t say I’ll understand, but if it’s not there for you - I can’t blame you. We tried, and - ”

“You know it’s not like that. You know I love you.”

“Do I?” Louis bites back. “Because, you know, I really did think you felt the same. Especially after our last - after we got in that fight. Even before that, I thought I couldn’t possibly be making it up. But why else would you just leave? Without even trying? Like I don’t matter at all?”

“You weren’t - ” Harry tails off, shaking his head. He looks up at Louis with wide, pleading eyes. “Lou, please…”

“Please what, Harry? Why can’t you just _speak_ to me?” Louis demands. “I’m so fucking sick of trying to read your mind. After our fight I thought for sure that we moved past this. I thought we were good. But I’m still always left wondering with you, worrying, then I feel like _I’m_ the nutter. It’s like, one minute I swear you feel the same, and then the next it’s like you’re not even there. I’m so sick of feeling like I’m walking on eggshells, like you’re going to flee if I say or ask one wrong thing. Do you think it’s easy for me? I’m still the same fucking person, Harry. I’m still terrified. You scare me like no one else. But every day I make the decision to be here for you, to push past my fear and be open and present, and it fucking sucks. Because every day I feel like I’m wide open and raw and right _there_ for you, and as soon as you let me in even a little, you close right back up.” He shakes his head, nearly foaming at the mouth in anger. “And then I find out that you’re leaving from Niall? Just like that, out of nowhere, without a clue of what I did? I don’t know what the hell else I’m supposed to do to make you trust me. Because clearly you don’t, and you haven’t really forgiven me either. Tell me, Harry, what else am I supposed to do to make you get it? To get you to believe me?”

Harry blinks, stares, hands kneading at his comforter, and says nothing.

“Fine,” Louis says firmly. He’s certain the pain in his chest is from where his heart actually breaking in two. “I guess I have my answer. If taking the coward’s way out is easier, then fine. Go ahead. Leave like you always do. But one day you won’t be able to run anymore and you’re going to have to face it. You’re going to have to face those dark corners of your mind that you’ve been avoiding. But know that when you do, I won’t be waiting.” Louis turns to leave, trying to keep the tears from spilling out until he’s at least at the top of the stairs, away from Harry’s silence and inexpressive eyes.

“Lou, wait,” Harry calls. Louis pauses at the doorway, but doesn’t turn around to face him. “Wait, okay. God.” He listens as Harry’s feet patter against the ground, until he feels a soft, tentative hand against his back. “Louis, don’t - I love you, okay? I really do. Fuck. It scares me how much I do.”

“So that’s why you’re running away? Because you’re scared?”

Louis turns to look at Harry now, and he just stares back, expression unreadable. They look at each other for a minute before Harry’s shoulders are slumping, and he’s saying, “Maybe.” He sighs, back hitting the wall as he splays his hands in front of his face. “Maybe I am. Scared. But it’s just that - everything happened so fast and - ”

“Fast?” Louis repeats, incredulously. “You said it yourself! We’ve been going at this for ten years. Ten years. How is that too fast for you?”

“No. No, I mean - this,” he says quickly, motioning between them. “We slept together so quickly and then - ”

“You were the one that instigated that! I would’ve been fine waiting! I told you I wanted to, and you were the one - ”

“Fuck. Fuck, I know. God, Lou, we’ve just spent so much time - I mean, ten years. And I just can’t - ” He swallows, tears welling in his eyes, body nearly turned and shielded from Louis. “I don’t want you to waste any more of your time just for you to be disappointed. I’m not - I mean, I’m a mess. I’m twenty-five, and I can’t do much more than serve people and mop up shit. I’ve never been to school - I’ve never. I’m just a little kid trapped in a man’s body. I don’t have a clue. About anything. I don’t even know how to be in a proper relationship. Hell, I thought sex was the one thing I was good at, but apparently I even mess that up too.” He looks so small, and everything in Louis wants to reach out and touch him, but he keeps his hands at his sides, balled into fists, waiting as Harry continues.

“And I know - I know you want a family some day,” Harry says, sniffling. “You’re twenty-seven, and you’re looking at our friends settling down and now your little sister is engaged, and I just - I can’t be that for you, Louis. Not now. And I don’t even - I mean. You say you love me now, but like, what if you follow me? What if in six months, a year down the road you realize? Then what? I worry it’s the rush of it all. The idea of finally like - I don’t know. That we’re finally together after all of these years that you haven’t realized that I’m so fucking - not on par with you, Louis. I have so much to learn and you just - God, you’ve grown and matured so much and I just feel like a child. I didn’t want to just run, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to talk to you when I’m so confused myself. Because I do love you. I’ve never stopped and it’s always been hard to handle but these past few months have been like - beyond comprehension. Like I can’t breathe or think or feel outside of this overwhelming sense of - well, love. It’s so fucking intense, it terrifies me. You say you love me, but I just can’t imagine you feeling what I do. I always love more, that’s what I do. And I can’t - I didn’t want you to see it. I couldnt - ” He stops himself, shaking his head, a few tears slipping from his eyes to roll down his cheeks. He moves his fist to his mouth, chewing on his nails, eyes downcast and avoidant of Louis’.

Louis melts at the sight, stepping forward without thought and outstretches a hand to rest along his jaw in comfort. “Harry, what are you - “ he starts, wiping a tear from Harry’s cheek with his thumb. “Yes, I want a family one day. Of course I do. But that isn’t what this is about. I just want you, Harry. All of you, not this half version you’ve been giving me because you’re scared. God, you think I have it figured out? I might’ve grown but so have you. Why do you keep forgetting that I’m working at a flower shop and have an unfinished degree? I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, all I know is that I want to be with you. I want to figure our shit out together.”

Harry inhales shakily, hiccuping. “But you said - What if you’re right? That we’re just sex. What if the sex wears off and then you realize - ”

“Harry,” Louis says quickly, firmly, moving his hand down to cup at his neck. He moves  himself until Harry’s forced to look him in the eye. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’m so sorry that’s how you took it. I was just trying to say that I wanted more of you. All of you. Not just your body. I wanted you to let me in. I just said it in a really horrible way. I’m sorry.” Harry doesn’t break eye contact, but doesn’t say anything either, so Louis continues, “I already know this is it. You’re it. We could keep trying to find it it in someone else but we won’t. It would be more pointless bullshit, because I’m yours and you’re mine, and you know that. You can run away because you’re scared but you know it’s only a matter of time before you get it, and I don’t - I may be here, but I can’t promise that. I can’t promise I’ll wait around forever if you decide - God, Harry. I really don’t want to go through even more bullshit. I don’t want to spend even another day without you. I feel physically ill at the thought. You’ve got me. I’m not going to leave. No matter what happens because I know that without you, it is always worse.”

Harry’s crying again, thick tears rolling down his cheeks. Louis keeps him cornered against the wall, hands cradling his neck and thumbs rolling soothing circles into his skin. Louis kisses the spot under his ear as Harry grips onto his shoulders, saying, “I can’t - I don’t want to - I can’t give into this and have you leave. I can’t lose you.”

“Do you trust me?”

Harry inhales once more, eyes flicking away. “It’s not about trusting you. It’s about me. It’s not that I think you’re lying. It’s that I worry it will change.”

“Do you trust me?” Louis repeats.

Harry’s wet eyes blink back at him. “Yes,” he says after a moment.

“Okay, and I’m telling you I won’t change my mind. It had plenty of years to change, and it hasn’t. And even if - even if you piss me off, which you will. Just like I’ll piss you off. And we’ll wonder why we’re even doing this, I still won’t change my mind. I’m not walking away. I’ll cling until it nearly kills me. I’ll cling until you question your sanity for picking me in the first place.”

Harry laughs, muffled with leftover tears. “Okay. Okay,” he says.

Louis leans forward to brush their mouths together, soft and tender. “I love you. I’m sorry for not being more understanding.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry for trying to run away again. I just - I got so scared. I mean, first we had that fight, and it really like. It haunted me, you know. And then all of these things started happening. First it was Amelia, and then the wedding. And running into Chris and his husband, and I just got so freaked out.” He swallows, eyes running along Louis. “I didn’t mean to - I never wanted to hurt you. I just panicked.”

Realization dawns on Louis as he begins to laugh. Harry lets him for a moment, waiting for Louis to fill him in, but when he doesn’t he blinks at him, confused. “What? Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Louis says. “I just - you sound like I did when I was a teenager, when I ran away.”

Harry frowns, but within a moment recognition floods his eyes as he begins to chuckle too. “God, we are so lame.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling, “It suddenly all makes sense.”

“Do you reckon we’re both done running now? Got it out of our systems?”

Harry nods adamantly. “Yes, please. So done.”

“Good.” Louis smiles, closing the distance to kiss him once again.

Harry grabs onto his wrist, circling his long fingers around the bone. He tugs Louis into him until their chests bump together. “I love you,” he says. “I’m happy that if I’m stuck with a clinger, it’s you.”

Louis laughs, hands slipping to the small of his back. “And I’m glad that it’s you I get to cling to.”

Harry smiles, eyes still wet, hand brushing through his hair. “Good,” he says, and kisses him.

 

*

 

The last of Louis’ football matches of the season land on the hottest day in July, the air practically buzzing with heat and his jersey stuck to his back in sweat. He scores the last goal with less than a minute left in the game, and by the end, his teammates swarm around him, cheering and slapping his back. When Louis looks up towards the stands, his eyes immediately fall to the large sign, gold glitter catching the sun. Harry grins behind the, _TOMMO IS MY HERO._

He makes his way down the stands to meet Louis on the field, waving his sign over his head and grinning wildly. Louis watches him in horror, wondering how he could possibly be surviving in dark skinny jeans. His boyfriend is a mutant.

“You’re so embarrassing.”

Harry brings the sign down to his chest, still smiling. “Still pretending you don’t love it, hm?”

Louis returns the smile, reaching behind Harry’s neck to pull him in for a kiss, causing the sign to get squished between their chests. He kisses him longer than probably deemed appropriate for a public field with kids around, but he doesn’t really care, only grinning harder into Harry’s mouth. In the stands, he’s sure the lads are making faces at them.

“I don’t ever remember getting that response as a teenager though.” Harry smirks when he finally pulls away.

“Really?” Louis asks, feigning confusion. “What a waste that was.”

“He was quite dense, now that I think of it,” Harry says. “I kept waiting… I mean, you think it would be obvious with my sparkly signs."

“You’d think,” Louis agrees. “And whatever happened to this bloke?”

“Hm,” Harry says thoughtfully, “the last I heard he smartened up a tad, and is moving to London next week with his embarrassing boyfriend.”

“Oh, good,” Louis says, relieved. “There’s hope for him after all.”

“Maybe just a little,” Harry teases.

Louis chuckles, mouth back on Harry’s. Harry kisses him back before ducking away, saying, “Go shower. You stink."

Louis pouts.

Harry winks, backing towards Niall, Liam and Zayn who stand at the edge of the field. "Celebratory milkshakes?" he suggests with dimpled cheeks and a thumbs-up. "My treat.”

Louis returns with a grin, his own thumb popped. “You know it, love.” 

 

**FIN.**


End file.
